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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



JEAN INGELOW, 




BOSTON: 
ROBERTS BROTHERS. 






^•^^^ 



•^^o^ 



Copyright, 1 880, 
By Roberts Brothers. 



GIFT 
MISS LCTiTiA THOMAS 
AUG- 3. 1940 



University Press: 
John Wilson an'i Son, Cambridge. 



letJicati'on, 



GEORGE K. INGELOW. 

YOUR LOVING SISTER 

OFFERS YOU THESE POEMS, PARTLY AS 

AN EXPRESSION OF HER AFFECTION, PARTLY FOR THE 

PLEASURE OF CONNECTING HER EFFORT 

WITH YOUR NAME. 



Kensington, June^ 1863. 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS. 

PACK 

Divided i 

Honors. — Part 1 3 

Honors. — Part II. 7 

Requiescat in Pace 13 

Supper at the Mill 15 

Scholar and Carpenter 19 

The Star's Monument 24 

A Dead Year 37 

Reflections written for the Portfolio Society 39 

The Letter L , 40 

The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire (1571) 49 

Afternoon at a Parsonage 52 

Songs of Seven : 

Seven times One. — Exultation 56 

Seven times Two. — Romance 56 

Seven times Three. — Love . 57 

Seven times Four. ^— Maternity 58 

Seven times Five. — Widowhood 58 

Seven times Six. — Giving in Marriage 58 

Seven times Seven. — Longing for Home 59 

A Cottage in a Chine 60 

Persephone 61 

A Sea Song 63 

Brothers, and a Sermon 63 

A Wedding Song 76 

The P'our Bridges 77 

A Mother showing the Portrait of her Child ; 90 

Strife and Peace 92 



CONTENTS. 



A STORY OF DOOM, AND OTHER POEMS. 

PAGB 

The Dreams that came True 97 

Songs on the Voices of Birds: 

Introduction. — Child and Boatman 106 

The Nightingale heard by the Unsatisfied Heart 107 

Sand Martins 107 

A Poet in his Youth, and the Cuckoo Bird 108 

A Raven in a White Chine no 

The Warbling of Blackbirds ni 

Sea-Mews in Winter Time in 

Laurance 112 

Songs of the Night Watches: 

Introductory. — Apprenticed 130 

The First Watch — Tired 131 

The Middle Watch 133 

The Morning Watch 135 

Concluding Song of Dawn 135 

A Story of Doom 136 

Contrasted Songs : 

Saihng beyond Seas 182 

Remonstrance 182 

Song for the Night of Christ's Resurrection 183 

Song of Margaret 185 

Song of the Going Away 186 

A Lily and a Lute 186 

Gladys and her Island 189 

Songs with Preludes: 

Wedlock 204 

Regret ... •. • 206 

Lamentation 206 

Dominion 207 

Friendship 209 

Winstanley 210 



CONTENTS. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, AND POEMS 
OF LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. 

PAGE 

The Monitions of the Unseen 217 

A Birthday Walk 228 

Not in Vain I Waited 228 

A Gleaning Song 229 

With a Diamond • 229 

Fancy 230 

Compensation 230 

Looking Down 230 

Harried Lovers 230 

A Winter Song . 231 

Binding Sheaves 232 

Work 232 

Wishing 232 

To 233 

On the Borders of Cannock Chase 233 

The Mariner's Cave 233 

A. Reverie 239 

Defton Wood 240 

The Snowdrop Monument (in Lichfield Cathedral) 240 

An Ancient Chess King 241 

Comfort in the Night 242 

Though all Great Deeds 242 

The Long White Seam 242 

An Old Wife's Song 243 

Cold and Quiet « . . 244 

A Snow Mountain. ". 244 

Sleep 244 

Promising . 245 

Love 245 

Poems written on the Deaths of three Children : 

Henry, aged eight years 246 

Samuel, aged nine years 248 

Katie, aged five years 249 



X CONTENTS. 

The Two Margarets: pagb 

I. Margaret by the Mere Side ...251 

II. Margaret in the Xebec 257 

Notes. .»•• 270 



POEMS. 



POEMS. 



DIVIDED. 



An empty sky, a world of heather, 
Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom ; 

We two among them wading together. 
Shaking out honey, treading per- 
fume. 

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, 
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our 
feet, 
Crowds of larks at their matins hang 
over, 
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with -her golden 

'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 

We two walk till the purple dieth 

And short dry grass under foot is 
brown, 
But one little streak at a distance lieth 
Green like a ribbon to prank the 
down. 



Over the grass we stepped unto it, 
And God He knoweth how blithe.we 
were! 
Never a voice to bid us eschew it : 
Hey the green ribbon that showed so 
fair! 



Hey the green ribbon ! we kneeled be- 
side it, 
We parted the grasses dewy and 
sheen ; 
Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
A tiny bright beck that trickled be- 
tween. 

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, 
Light was our talk as of faery bells — 

Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us 
Down in their fortunate parallels. 

Hand in* hand, while the sun peered 
over, 
We] lapped the grass on that young- 
ling spring ; 
Swept back its rushes, smoothed its 
clover. 
And said, "Let us follow it west- 
ering." 



A dappled sky, a world of meadows, 
Circling above us the black rooks fly 

Forward, backward ; lo, their dark 
shadows 
Flit on the blossoming tapestry — 

Flit on the beck, for her long grass 
parteth 
As hair from a maid's bright eyes 
blown back ; 
And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth 
His flattering smile on her wayward 
track. 



DIVIDED. 



Sing on! we sing in the glorious 
weather 

Till one steps over the tiny strand, 
So narrow, in sooth, that still together 

On either brink we go hand in hand. 

The beck grows wider, the hands must 

sever. 

On either margin, our songs all done, 

We move apart, while she singeth ever, 

Taking the course of the stooping 

sun. 

He prays, " Come over" — I may not 
follow ; 
I cry, "Return" — but he cannot 
come : 
We speak, we laugh, but with voices 
hollow ; 
Our hands are hanging, our hearts 
are numb. 



A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, 
A little talking of outward things : 

The careless beck is a merry dancer, 
Keeping sweet time to the air she 
sings. 

A little pain when the beck grows 
wider ; 
" Cross to me now — for her wavelets 
swell : " 
"I may not cross" — and the voice 
beside her 
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 

No backward path ; ah ! no returning ; 

No second crossing that ripple's flow : 

"Come to me now, for the west is 

burning ; 

Come ere it darkens ; " — " Ah, no ! 

ah, no! " 

Then cries of pain, and arms out- 
reaching — 
The beck grows wider and swift and 
deep: 
Passionate words as of one beseech- 
ing— 
The loud beck drowns them; we 
walk, and weep. 



A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 

A tired queen with her state oppressed, 
Low by rushes and swordgrass stoop- 
ing, 
Lies she soft on the waves at rest. 

The desert heavens have felt her sad- 
ness ; 
Her earth will weep her some dewy 
tears ; 
The wild beck ends her tune of glad- 
ness, 
And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 

We two walk on in our grassy places 

On either marge of the moonlit flood, 
With the moon's own sadness in our 
faces. 
Where joy is withered, blossom and 
bud. 

VI. 

A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 
A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; 

A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, 
A cloud to the eastward snowy as 
curds. 

Bare glassy slopes, where kids are 
tethered.; 
Round valleys like nests all ferny- 
lined ; 
Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops 
feathered, 
Swell high in their freckled robes 
behind. 

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, 
When golden gleams to the tree-tops 
glide ; 
A flashing edge for the milk-white river. 
The beck, a river — with still sleek 
tide. 

Broad and white, and polished as silver,- 
On she goes under fruit-laden trees ; 

Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver. 
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. 

Glitters the dew and shines the river, 
Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 

But two are walking apart for ever, 
And wave their hands for a mute 
farewell. 



HONORS. 



A braver swell, a swifter sliding ; 

The river hasteth, her banks recede : 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 

Bear down the lily and drown the 
reed. 

Stately prows are rising and bowing 
(Shouts of mariners winnow the air), 

And level sands for banks endowing 
The tiny green ribbon that showed 
so fair. 

While, O my heart! as white sails 
shiver. 
And crowds are passing, and banks 
stretch wide, 
How hard to follow, with lips that 
quiver, 
That moving speck on the far-off 
side! 

Farther, farther — I see it — know it — 
My eyes brim over, it melts away: 

Only my heart to my heart shall show it 
As I walk desolate day by day. 



And yet I know past all doubting, 
truly — 
A knowledge greater than grief can 
dim — 
I know, as he loved, he will love me 
duly — 
Yea, better — e'en bettet than I love 
him. 

And as I walk by the vast calm river. 

The awful river so dread to see, 
I say, " Thy breadth and thy depth for 
ever 
Are bridged by his thoughts that 
cross to me." 



HONORS. — PART I. 
A Scholar is vtusing on his Want of 

Sjiccess. 
To strive — and fail. Ves, I did 
strive and fail, 
I set mine eyes upon a certain night 
To find a certain star — and could 
not hail 
With them its deep-set light. 



Fool that I was 1 I will rehearse my 
fault : 
I, wingless, thought myself on high 
to lift 
A mong the winged — / set these feet 
that halt 
To run agaitist the swift. 

And yet this man, that loved me so, 
can write — 
That loves vie, I would say, can let . 
me see ; 
Or fain wotdd have me think he 
counts but light 
These Honors lost to me. 

{The Letter of his Friend.'] 

"What are they? that old house of 
yours which gave 
Such welcomes oft to me, the sun- 
beams fall 
Still down the squares of blue and 
white which pave 
Its hospitable hall. 

"A brave old house! a garden full of 
bees. 
Large dropping poppies, and queen 
hollyhocks. 
With butterflies for crowns — tree 
peonies 
And pinks and goldilocks. 

*' Go, when the shadow of your house 
is long 
Upon the garden — when some new- 
waked bird. 
Pecking and fluttering, chirps a sud- 
den song. 
And not a leaf is stirred ; 

" But every one drops dew from either 
edge 
Upon its fellow, while an amber ray 
Slants up among the tree-tops like a 
wedge 
Of liquid gold — to play 

" Over and under them, and so to fall 
Upon that lane of water lying be- 
low — 
That piece of sky let in, that you do 
call 
A pond, but which I know 



HONORS. 



•'.To be a deep and wondrous world ; 
fori 
Have seen the trees within it — mar- 
vellous things : 
So thick no bird betwixt their leaves 
could fly 
But she would smite her wings ; — 

" Go there, I say ; stand at the water's 
brink, 
And shoals of spotted grayling you 
shall see 
Basking between the shadows — look, 
and think 
* This beauty is for me ; 

** * For me this freshness in the morn- 
ing hours ; 
For me the water's clear tranquil- 
lity ; 
For me that soft descent of chestnut 
flowers ; 
The cushat's cry for me. 

" ' The lovely laughter of the wind- 
swayed wheat ; 
The easy slope of yonder pastoral 
hill ; 
The sedgy brook whereby the red kine 
meet 
And wade and drink their fill.' 

"Then saunter down that terrace 
whence the sea 
All fair with wing-like sails you may 
discern ; 
Be glad, and say 'This beauty is for 
me — 
A thing to love and learn. 

•"For me the bounding in of tides; 
for me 
The laying bare of sands when they 
retreat ; 
The purple flush of calms, the spark- 
ling glee 
When waves and sunshine meet.' 

" So, after gazing, homeward turn, and 
mount 
To that long chamber in the roof; 
there tell 



Your heart the laid-up lore it holds to 
count 
And prize and ponder well. 

"The lockings onward of the race 

before 
It had a past to make it look behind ; 
Its reverent wonders, and its doubting? 
sore, 
Its adorations blind. 

"The thunder of its war-songs, and 
the glow 
Of chants to freedom by the old* 
world sung ; 
The sweet love cadences that long ago 
Dropped from the old world 
tongue. 

"And then this new-world lore that 
takes account 
Of tangled star-dust ; maps the triple 
whirl 
Of blue and red and argent worlds that 
mount 
And greet the Irish Earl ; 

" Or float across the tube that Her- 
SCHEL sways, 
Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sap- 
phire mist ; 
Or hang or droop along the heavenly 
ways. 
Like scarfs of amethyst. 

"O strange it is and wide the new- 
world lore. 
For next it treateth of our native 
dust! 
Must dig out buried monsters, and 
explore 
The green earth's fruitful crust ; 

" Must write the story of her seething 
youth — 
How lizards paddled in her luke- 
warm seas ; 
Must show the cones she ripened, and 
forsooth 
Count seasons on her trees ; 

"Must know her weight, and pry into 
her age, 
Count her old beach lines by their 
tidal swell ; 



HONORS. 



Her sunken mountains name, her crat- 
ers gauge, 
Her cold volcanoes tell ; 

*'And treat her as a ball, that one 
might pass 
From this hand to the other — such 
a ball 
As he could measure with a blade of 
grass, 
And say it was but small ! 

** Honors ! O friend, I pray you bear 
with me : 
The grass hath -time to grow in 
meadow lands. 
And leisurely the opal murmuring sea 
Breaks on her yellow sands ; 

"And leisurely the ring-dove on her 
nest 
Broods till her tender chick will peck 
the shell ; 
And leisurely down fall from ferny crest 
The dew-drops on the well ; 

"And leisurely your life and spirit 
grew, 
With yet the time to grow and ripen 
free: 
No judgment past withdraws that boon 
from you, 
Nor granteth it to me. 

" Still must I plod, and still in cities 
moil ; 
From precious leisure, learned leisure 
far, 
Dull my best self with handling com- 
mon soil ; 
Yet mine those honors are. 

"Mine they are called; they are a 
name which means, 
* This man had steady pulses, tran- 
quil nerves ; 
Here, as in other fields, the most he 
gleans 
who works and never swerves. 

" * We measure not liis mind ; we can- 
not tell 



What lieth under, over, or beside 
The test we piU him to ; he doth excel, 
We know, where he is tried ; 

" ' But, if he boast some further excel- 
lence — 
Mind to create as well as to attain ; 
To sway his peers by golden eloquence, 
As wind doth shift a fane ; 

"' To sing among the poets — we are 
nought : 
We cannot drop a line into that sea 
And read its fathoms off, nor gauge a 
thought, 
Nor map a simile. 

" ' It may be of all voices sublunar 

The only one he echoes we did try ; 
We may have come upon the only star 
That twinkles in his sky.' 

" And so it was with me." 

O false my friend) 
False., false, a random charge, a 
blame undue ; 
Wrest not fair reasoning- to a crooked 
end : 
False, false, as you are true ! 

But I read on'. " And so it was with 
me; 
Your golden constellations lying 
apart 
They neither hailed nor greeted- 
heartily, 
Nor noted on their chart. 

" And yet to you and not to me belong 
Those finer instincts that, like second 
sight 
And hearing, catch creation's under- 
song, 
And see by inner light. 

"You are a well, •whereon I, gazing, 
see 
Reflections of the upper heavens — 
a well 
From whence come deep, deep echoes 
up to me — 
Some underwave's low swell. 



HONORS. 



'* I cannot soar into the heights you 
show, 
Nor dive among the deeps that you 
reveal ; 
But it is much that high things are to 
know, 
That deep things are to feel. 

"'Tis yours, not mine, to pluck out of 
your breast 
Some human truth, whose workings 
recondite 
Were unattired in words, and mani- 
fest 
And hold it forth to light, 

"And cry, 'Behold this thing that I 
have found.' 
And though they knew not of it till 
that day, 
Nor should have done with no man to 
expound 
Its meaning, yet they say, 

"'We do accept it: lower than the 
shoals 
We skim, this diver went, nor did 
create, 
But find it for us deeper in our souls 
Than we can penetrate.' 

"You were to me the world's inter- 
preter. 
The man that taught me Nature's 
unknown tongue, 
And to the notes of her wild dulcimer 
First set sweet words and sung. 

"And what am I to you? A steady 
hand 
To hold, a steadfast heart to trust 
withal ; 
Merely a man that loves you, and will 
stand 
By you, whate'er befall. 

"But need we praise his tendance 
tutelar 
Who feeds a flame that warms him? 
Yet 'tis true 
1 love you for the sake of what you are, 
And not of what you do : — 



"As heaven's high twins, whereof in 
Tyrian blue 
The one revolveth; through his 
course immense 
Might love his fellow of the damask 
hue, 
For like, and difference. 

" For different pathways ever more 
decreed 
To intersect, but not to interfere ; 
For common goal, two aspects, and 
one speed. 
One centre and one year ; 

"For deep affinities, for drawings 
strong. 
That by their nature each must needs 
exert ; 
For loved alliance, and for union long, 
That stands before desert. 

"And yet desert makes brighter not 
the less, 
For nearest his own star he shall not 
fail 
To think those rays unmatched for 
nobleness. 
That distance counts but pale<» 

"Be pale afar, since still to me you 
shine. 
And must while Nature's eldest law 
shall hold;" — 
A h, there's the thought which makes 
his random line 
Dear as refiiibd goldl 

Then shall J drink this draught of 
oxymel, 
Part sweet, part sharp ? Myself 
d' erprized to know 
Is sharp ; the canse is sweet, and 
truth to tell 
Few wotdd that cause forego,^ 

Which is, that this of all tlie men on 
earth 
Doth love m.e well enough to count 
me great — 
To think my soul and his of equal 
girth — 
O liberal estimate I 



HONORS. 



And yet it is so ; he is bound to me, 
For human love makes aliens near 
of kin; 
By it I rise, there is equality .* 
/ rise to thee, my twin, 

" Take courage " — courage I ay, my 
purple peer, 
I -will take courage ;for thy Tyrian 
rays 
Refresh me to the heart, and strangely 
dear 
A fid healing is thy praise. 

"Take courage,"^?^£»^/2 he, "and re- 
spect the mind 
Your Maker gave, for good your fate 
fulfil ; 
The fate round many hearts your own 
to wind." 
Twin soul, I will 1 I will I 



HONORS. — PART II. 
The A nswer. 

As one who, journeying, checks the 
rein in haste 
Because a chasm doth yawn across 
his way 
Too wide for leaping, and too steeply 
. faced 
For climber to essay — 

As such an one, being brought to sud- 
den stand, 
Doubts all his foregone path if 'twere 
the true, _ 
And turns to this and then to the other 
hand 
As knowing not what to do, — 

So I, being checked, am with my path 
at strife 
Which led to such a chasm, and there 
doth end. 
False path! it cost nie priceless years 
of life, 
My well-beloved friend. 



There fell a flute when Ganymede went 
up — 
The flute that he was wont to play 
upon : 
It dropped beside the jonquil's milk- 
white cup. 
And freckled cowslips wan — 

Dropped from his heedless hand when, 
dazed and mute. 
He sailed upon the eagle's quivering 
wing. 
Aspiring, panting — ay, it dropped — 
the flute 
Erewhile a cherished thing. 

Among the delicate grasses and the 
bells 
Of crocuses that spotted a rill side, 
I picked up such a flute, and its clear 
swells 
To my young lips replied. 

I played thereon, and its response was 
sweet ; 
But, lo, they took from me that sol- 
acing reed. 
" O shame ! " they said ; "such music 
is not meet ; 
Go up like Ganymede. 

" Go up, despise these himible grassy 
things. 
Sit on the golden edge of yonder 
cloud." 
Alas! though ne'er for me those eagle 
wings 
Stboped from their eyrie proud. 

My flute! and flung away its echoes 
sleep ; 
But as for me, my life-pulse beateth 
low ; 
And like a last-year's leaf enshrouded 
deep 
Under the drifting snow. 

Or like some vessel wTecked upon the 
sand 
Of torrid swamps, with all her mer- 
chandise, 
And left to rot betwixt the sea and laud, 
My helpless spirit lies. 



HONORS. 



Ruing, I think for what then was I 
made; 
What end appointed for — what use 
designed ? 
Now let me right this heart that was 
bewrayed — 
Unveil these eyes gone blind. 

My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day 
Over our cliffs a white mist lay un- 
furled, 
So thick, one standing on their brink 
might say, 
Lo, here doth end the world. 

A white abyss beneath, and nought be- 
side ; 
Yet, hark ! a cropping sound not ten 
feet do%vn : 
Soon I could trace some browsing lambs 
that hied 
Through rock -paths cleft and 
brown. 

And here and there green tufts of grass 
peered through, 
Salt lavender, and sea thrift; then 
behold, 
The mist, subsiding ever, bared to view 
A beast of giant moiild. 

She seemed a great sea monster lying 
content 
With all her cubs about her : but 
deep — deep — 
The subtile mist went floating ; Its de- 
scent 
Showed the world's end was steep. 

It shook, It melted, shaking more, till, 
lo. 
The sprawling monster was a rock ; 
her brood 
Were boulders, whereon seamews white 
as snow 
Sat watching for their food. 

Then once again It sank. Its day was 
done : 
Part rolled away, part vanished ut- 
terly, 
And glimmering softly under the white 
sim, 
Behold! a great white sea. 



O that the mist which veileth my To- 
come 
Would so dissolve and yield unto 
mine eyes 
A worthy path! I'd count not weari- 
some 
Long toil, nor enterprise, 

But strain to reach it ; ay, with wrest- 
lings stout 
And hopes that even in the dark will 
grow 
(Like plants in dungeons, reaching 
feelers out). 
And ploddings wary and slow. 

Is there such path already made to fit 
The measure of my foot? It shall 
atone 
For much, if I at length may light on it 
And know it for mine own. 

But is there none? why, then 'tis more 
than well : 
And glad at heart myself will hew 
one out. 
Let me be only sure ; for, sooth to tell, 
The sorest dole is doubt — 

Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, 
which mars 
All sweetest colors in its dimness 
same ; 
A soul-mist, through whose rifts famil» 
iar stars 
Beholding, we misname. 

A ripple on the Inner sea, which shakes 
Those images that on Its breast re- 
posed ; 
A fold upon the wind-swayed flag, that 
breaks 
The motto It disclosed. 

doubt ! O doubt ! I know my destiny ; 
I feel thee fluttering bird-like In my 

breast; 

1 cannot loose, but I will sing to thee,' 

And flatter thee to rest. 

There Is no certainty, "my bosom's 
guest, " 
No proving for the things whereof 
ye wot ; 



HONORS. 



For, like the dead to sight immanifest, 
They are, and they are not. 

But surely as they are, for God is truth. 
And as they are not, for we saw them 
die, 
So surely from the heaven drops light 
for youth. 
If youth will walk thereby. 

And can I see this light? It may be 
so; 
"But see it thus and thus," my 
fathers said. 
The living do not rulg this world ; ah, 
no! 
It is the dead, the dead. 

Shall I be slave to every noble soul, 
Study the dead, and to their spirits 
bend ; 
Gr learn to read my own heart's folded 
scroll. 
And make self-rule my end ? 

Thought from witJwut — O shall I take 
on trust, 
And life from others modelled steal 
or win ; 
Or shall I heave to light, and clear of 
rust 
My true life from "within. 

O, let me be myself! But where, O 
where, 
Under this heap of precedent, this 
mound 
Of customs, modes, and maxims, cum- 
brance rare, 
Shall the Myself be found? 

O thou Myself., thy fathers thee de- 
baired 
None of their wisdom, but their folly 
came 
Therewith ; they smoothed thy path, but 
made it hard 
For thee to quit the same. 

With glosses they obscured God's nat- 
ural truth. 
And with tradition tarnished His re- 
vealed ; 



With vain protections they endangered 
youth. 
With layings bare they sealed. 

What aileth thiee, myself? Alas! thy 
hands 
Are tired' with old opinions — heir 
and son. 
Thou hast inherited thy father's lands 
And all his debts thereon. 

O that some power would give me 
Adam's eyes! 
O for the straight simplicity of Eve ! 
For I see nought, or grow, poor fool, 
too wise 
With seeing to believe. 

Exemplars may be heaped until they 
hide 
The rules that they were made to 
render plain ; ^ 

Love may be watched, her natfjfc to 
decide. 
Until love's self doth wane. 

Ah me ! and when forgotten and fore- 
gone 
We leave the learning of departed 
days. 
And cease the generations past to con, 
Their wisdom and their ways — 

When fain to learn we lean into the 
dark. 
And grope to feel the floor of the 
abyss, 
Or find the secret boundary lines which 
mark 
Where soul and matter kiss — 

Fair world ! these puzzled souls of ours 
grow weak 
With beating their bruised wings 
accainst the rim _ 

That bounds their utmost flying, when 
they seek 
The distant and the dim. 



We pant, we strain like birds against 
their wires ; 
Are sick to reach the vast and the 
beyond ; — 



HOIVORS. 



And what avails, if still to our desires 
Those far-off gulfs respond ? 

Contentment comes not therefore ; still 
there lies 
An outer distance when the first is 
hailed, 
And still for ever yawns before our eyes 
An UTMOST — that is veiled. 

Searching those edges of the universe, 
We leave the central fields a fallow 
part ; 
To feed the eye more precious things 
amerce. 
And starve the darkened heart. 

I Then all goes wrong : the old founda- 
tions rock, 
One scorns at him of old who gazed 
unshod ; 
One Mriking with a pickaxe thinks the 
^hock 
Shall move the seat of God. 

A little way, a very little way 

(Life is so short), they dig into the 
rind, 
And they are very sorry, so they say , — 
Sorry for what they find. 

But truth is sacred — ay, and must be 
told: 
There is a story long beloved of 
man ; 
We must forego it, for it vAW not hold — 
Nature had no such plan. 

And then, "if God hath said it," some 
should cry, 
" We have the story from the foun- 
tain head : " 
Why, then, what better than the old 
reply, 
The first "Yea, hath God said?" 

The garden, O the garden, must it go. 
Source of our hope and our most 
dear regret ? 
The ancient story, must it no more show 
How men may win it yet ? 

And all upon the Titan child's decree, 
The baby science, born but yesterday, 



That in its rash unlearned infancy 
With shells and stones at play, 

And delving in the outworks of this 
world. 
And little crevices that it could reach, 
Discovered certain bones laid up, and 
furled 
Under an ancient beach, 

And other waifs that lay to its young 
mind 
Some fathoms lower than they ought 
to lie. 
By gain whereof it could not fail to &nd 
Much proof of ancientry. 

Hints at a pedigree withdrawn and vast. 

Terrible deeps, and old obscurities, 
Or soulless origin, and twilight passed 
In the primeval seas, 

Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath 
been 
Of truth not meant for man inheri- 
tor ; 
As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er 
foreseen 
And not provided for ! 

Knowledge ordained to live! although 
the fate 
Of much that went before it was — to 
die. 
And be called ignorance by such as 
wait 
Till the next drift comes by. 

O marvellous credulity of man ! 

If God indeed kept secret, couldst- 
thou know 
Or follow up the mighty Artisan 
Unless He willed it so? 

And canst thou of the Maker think in 
sooth 
That of the Made He shall be found 
at fault. 
And dream of wresting from Him hid- 
den truth 
By force or by assault ? 



HONORS. 



But if Vie keeps not secret — if thine 
eyes 
He openeth to His wondrous work 
of late — 
Think how in soberness thy wisdom hes, 
And have the grace to wait. 

Wait, nor against the half-learned les- 
son fret, 
Nor chide at old belief as if it erred, 
Because thou canst not reconcile as yet 
The Worker amd the word. ^ 

Either the Worker did in ancient days 
Give us the word, His tale of love 
and might ; 
(And if in truth He gave it us, who says 
He did not give it right ?) 

Or else He gave it not, and then indeed 
We know not if He is — by whom 
our years 
Are portioned, who the orphan moons 
doth lead. 
And the unfathered spheres. 

vVe sit unowned upon our burial sod, 
And know not whence we come or 
whose we be, 
Comfortless mourners for the mount of 
God, 
The rocks of Calvary : 

Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved 
page 
Wrought us by some who thought 
with death to cope ; 
Despairing comforters, from age to age 
Sowing the seeds of hope : 

Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us 
Out of the slough where passed our 
imknown youth ; 
Beneficent liars, who have gifted us 
With sacred love of truth ! 

Farewell to them: yet pause ere thou 
unmoor 
And set thine ark adrift on unknown 
seas ; 
How wert thou bettered so, or more 
secure 
Thou, and thy destinies ! 



And if thou searchest, and art made to 

fear 

Facing of unread riddles dark and 

hard. 

And mastering not their majesty austere, 

Their meaning locked and barred : 

How would it riiake the weight and 
wonder less, 
If, lifted from immortal shoulders 
down. 
The worlds were cast on seas of empti' 
ness 
In realms without a crown, 

And (if there were no God) were left 
to rue 
Dominion of the air and of the fire ? 
Then if there be a God, " Let God be. 
true, 
And every man a liar." 

But as for me, I do not speak as one 
That is exempt: I am with life at 
feud : 
My heart reproacheth me, as there were 
none 
Of so small gratitude ; 

Wherewith shall I console thee, heart 
o' mine, 
And still thy yearning and resolve 
thy doubt? 
That which I know, and that which / 
divine, 
Alas ! have left thee out. 

I have aspired to know the might of 
God, 
As if the story of His love waJ 
furled, 
Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er hAf 
trod 
Of this redeemed world : — 

Have sunk my thoughts as lead intl 
the deep, 
To grope for that abyss whence ev3 
grew, 
And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot 
weep. 
Hungry and desolate flew ; 



HONORS. 



As if their legions did not one day 
crowd 
The death-pangs of the Conquering 
Good to seel 
As if a sacred head had never bowed 
In death for man — for me ; 

Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, 
the sons 
Of men, from thraldom with the 
nether kings 
In that dark country where those evil 
ones 
Trail their unhallowed wings. 

And didst Thou love the race that 
loved not Thee, 
And didst Thou take to heaven a 
human brow? 
Dost plead with man's voice by the 
marvellous sea? 
Art Thou his kinsman now ? 

O God, O kinsman loved, but not 
enough ! 
O man, with eyes majestic after 
death. 
Whose feet have toiled along our path- 
ways rough. 
Whose lips dravra human breath ! 

By that one likeness which is ours and 
Thine, 
By that one nature which doth hold 
us kin. 
By that high heaven where, sinless, 
Thou dost shine 
To draw us sinners in, 

By Thy last silence in the judgment- 
hall, 
By long foreknowledge of the deadly 
tree. 
By darkness, by the wormwood and the 

gall, 
' I pray Thee visit me. 

Come, lest this heart should, cold and 
cast away. 
Die ere the guest adored she enter- 
tain — 
Lest eyes which never saw Thine 
earthly day 
Should miss Thy heavenly reign. 



Come weary-eyed from seeking in the 

night 
Thy wanderers strayed upon the 
pathless wold. 
Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for 
light. 
And cannot find their fold. 

And deign, O Watcher, with the sleep- 
less brow. 
Pathetic in its yearning — deign re"" 
ply : 
Is there, O is there aught that such a^i 
Thou 
Wouldst take from such as I ? 

Are there no briars across Thy pathwaj 
thrust ? 
Are there no thorns that compass i) * 
about ? 
Nor any stones that Thou wilt deigr 
to trust 
My hands to gather out? 

O, if thou wilt, and if such bliss migb* 
be. 
It were a cure for doubt, regret, de 
lay — 
Let my lost pathway go — what ailetJ 
me? — 
There is a better way. 

What though unmarked the happj 
workman toil. 
And break unthanked of man th i 
stubborn clod? 
It is enough, for sacred is the soil, 
Dear are the hills of God. 

Far better in its place the lowliest birc^ 
Should sing aright to Him the lov.* 
liest song. 
Than that a seraph strayed should take 
tlie word 
And sing His glory wrong. 

Friend, it is time to work. I say t'i 
thee. 
Thou dost all earthly good by much 
excel : 
Thou and God's blessing are enough 
for me : 
My work, my work — farewell ! 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE! 

REQUIESCAT IN PACE! 

O MY heart, my heart is sick awishing and awaiting : 
The lad took up his' knapsack, he went, he went his way ; 

And I looked on for his coining, as a prisoner through the grating 
Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening day. 

On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no other, 

The strong terrible mountains, he longed, he longed to be ; 

And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss his mother, 
And till I said " Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot me. 

He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them, 
Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder-rents and scars. 

And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them, 
And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and His crocus stars. 

He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like fleeces. 
And make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses hoar; 

Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and go to pieces, 
Like sloops against their cruel strength : then he wrote no more. 

O the silence that came next, the patience and long aching! 

They never said so much as " He was a dear loved son ; " 
Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary stillness breaking: 

"Ah! wherefore did he leave us so — this, our only one?" 

They sat within, as waiting, until the neighbors prayed them. 
At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 'twere peace and change to be ; 

/ind to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency affrayed them, 
Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and took me. 

It was three months and over since the dear lad had started: 

On the green downs at Cromer I sat to see the view ; 
On an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern had parted, 
• Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old and the new. 

Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stooping, 

And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet dye ; 
And he dyed the lighthouse towers ; every bird with white wing swooping 

Took his colors, and the cliffs did, and the yawning sky. 

Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and heather, 
Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer town ; 

And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet feather 
Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while, he settled dowTi. 

When I looked, I dared not sigh : — In the light of God's splendor, 
With His daily blue anp' gold, who am I ? what am I ? 

But that passion and outpouring seemed an awiul sign and tender, 
Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth and sky. 

for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and trouble! 
On that sultry August eve trouble had made me meek: 

1 was tired of my sorrow — O so faint, for it was double 
In the weight of its oppression, that I could not speak ! 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE I 

And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes were feeding, 

And the dull ears with murmur of waters satisfied ; 
But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts and fancy leading 

Across the bounds of waking life to the other side. 

And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters turning. 
And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to wave tossed on ; 

And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold lay burning 
On the clear remote sea reaches ; for the sun was gone. 

Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the still water — 

A question as I took it, for soon an answer came 
From the tall white ruined lighthouse : ." If it be the old man's daughter 

That we wot of," ran the answer, "what then — who's to blame?" 

I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm-broken : 
A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched to sea ; 

Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had spoken, 
And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me. 

I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to name him ; 

" He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the sun ; 
Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not shame him: 

Ay, the old man was a good man — and his work was done." 

The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed. 

Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she crossed, 

And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and darted, 
Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost. 

I said, " That thing is hooded ; I could hear but that floweth 
The great hood below its mouth : " then the bird made reply, 

** If they know not, more's the pity, for the little shrewmouse knoweth, 
And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye." 

And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping ; 

And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spiake, 
" What I said was ' more 's the pity ; ' if the heart be long past hoping, 

Let it say of death, ' I know it,' or doubt on and break. 

"Men must die — one dies by day, and near him moans his mother. 
They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full loth : 

And one dies about the midnight, and the" wind moans, and no other, 
And the snows give him a burial — and God loves them both. 

"The first hath no advantage — it shall not soothe his slumber 
That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep ; 

For the last, he nothing gi-udgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber. 
That in a golden mesh of his callow eaglets sleep. 

" Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead know it, 
And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad too ; 

It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds blow it, 
And he met it on the mountain — why then make ado?" 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. i 

With that he spread his white wings, and swept across the water, 

Lit upon the liooded head, and it and all went down ; 
And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, " the old man's daughter,' 

And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer town. 

And I said, " Is that the sky, all gray and silver suited?" 
And I thought, " Is that the sea that lies so white and wan? 

I have dreamed as I remember : give me time — I was reputed 
Once to have a steady courage — O, I fear 'tis gone ! " 

And I said, " Is this my heart ? if it be, low 'tis beating. 

So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' brood ; 
I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were fleeting, 

But I need not, need not tell it — where would be the good ? 

*' Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother ? 

For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still. 
While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red would smother, 

That gives wnkt little light there is to a darksome hill?" 

I rose up, I rnade no moan, I did not cry nor falter. 

But sl'Hvly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. 
What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to aher? 

He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne'er come down. 

But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee ! 

O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed ! 
From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and spread above thee ; 

I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head. 

Fare thee well, my love of loves ! would I had died before thee ! 

O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow, 
Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being o'er thee, 

And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with snow ! 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

Mother. Well, Frances. 

Frances. Well, good mother, how 

are you ? 
M. I'm hearty, lass, but warm ; the 
weather's warm: 
I think 'tis mostly warm on market 

days. 
I met with George behind the mill : 

said he, 
" Mother, go in and rest awhile." 

F. Ay, do. 

And stay to supper ; put your basket 
down. 
Af. Why, now, it is not heavy? 
F. Willie, man. 

Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, 
nol 



Some call good churning luck ; but, 

luck or skill. 
Your butter mostly comes as firm and 

sweet 
As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it 
all? 
31. All but this pat that I put by for 
George ; 
He always loved my butter. 
F. That he did. 

M. And has your speckled hen 

brought off her brood? 
F. Not yet ; but that old duck I told 
you of, 
She hatched eleven out of twelve to- 
day. 
Child. And, Granny, they're so yel-" 
low. 



i6 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



Mi Ay, my lad, 

Yellow as gold — yellow as Willie' s h air. 

C. They' re all mine, Granny — father 

says they're mine. 
M. To think of that ! 
p. Yes, Granny, only think ! 

Why, father means to sell them when 

they're fat, 
And -put the money in the savings bank, 
And all against our Willie goes to 

school : 
But Willie would not touch them — no, 

not he ; 
He knows that father would be angry 
else. 
C. But I want one to play with — O, 
I want 
A little yellow duck to take to bed ! 
M. What! would you rob the poor 

old mother, then ? 
P. Now, Granny, if you'll hold the 
babe awhile ; 
'Tis time I took up Willie to his crib. 
lExit Frances. 



[Mother sings to the infant.l 

Playing on the virginals. 

Who but I ? Sae glad, sae free, 
Smelling for all cordials, 

The green mint and marjorie ; 
Set among the budding broom. 

Kingcup and daffodilly, 
By my side I made him room : 

O love my Willie ! 

" Like me, love me, girl o' gowd," 

Sang he to my nimble strain ; 
Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed 

Till my heartstrings rang again : 
By the broom, the bonny broom, 

Kingcup and daffodilly. 
In my heart I made him room : 

O love my Willie ! 

*' Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he, 

" I must go, yet pipe and play ; 
Soon I'll come and ask of thee 

For an answer yea or nay ; " 
And I waited till the flocks 

Panted in yon waters stilly, 
And the corn stood in the shocks : 

O love my Willie ! 



I thought first when thou didst come 

I would wear the ring for thee, 
But the year told out its sum 

Ere again thou sat'st by me ; 
Thou hadst nought to ask that day 

By kingcup and daffodilly ; 
I said neither yea nor nay : 

O love my Willie ! 

Enter George. 

G. Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, 

or more. 
Since I set eyes on you. 

M. Ay, George, my dear, 

I reckon you've been busy : so have we. 

G. And how does father ? 

M. He gets through his work. 

But he grows stiii, a little stiff, my dear ; 

He's not so young, you know, by twenty 

years. 
As I am — not so young by twenty years, 
And I'm past sixty. 

G. Yet he's hale and stout, 

And seems to take a pleasure in his 

pipe; 
And seems to take a pleasure in his 

cows, 
And a pride, too. 
M, And well he may, my dear. 

G. Give me the little one, he tires 

your arm ; 
He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful 

rogue. 
He almost wears our lives out with his 

noise 
Just at day-dawning, when we wish to 

sleep. 
What! you young villain, would you 

clench your fist 
In father's curls? a dusty father, sure, 
And you're as clean as wax. 

Ay, you may laugh ; 
But if you live a seven years more or so, 
These hands of yours will all be brown 

and scratched 
With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll 

go down 
As many rat-holes as are round the 

mere ; 
And you'll love mud, all manner of 

mud and dirt, 
As your father did afore you, and you'll 

wade 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



17 



After young water-birds ; and you'll 

get bogged 
Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil 

your clothes, 
And come home torn and dripping: 

then, you know, 
You'll feel the stick — you'll feel the 

stick, my lad ! 



Enter Frances. 

F. You should not talk so to the 

blessed babe — 
How can you, George? why, he may 

be in heaven 
Before the time you tell of. 

M. Look at him : 

So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes ! 
He thrives, my dear. 

F. Yes, Jiat he does, thank God! 
My children are all strong. 

M. '_Tis much to say ; 

Sick children fret their mothers' hearts 

to shreds, 
And do no credit to their keep nor care. 
'Where is your little lass ? 

F. Your daughter came 

Avid begged her of us for a week or so. 

M. Well, well, she might be wiser, 

that she might, 
For she can sit at ease and pay her 

way; 
A sober husband, too — a cheerful 

man — 
Honest as ever stepped, and fond of 

her; 
Yet she is never easy, never glad, 
Because she has not children. Well-a- 

day ! 
\'l she could know how hard her mother 

worked, 
And what ado I had, and what a moil 
With my half-dozen ! Children, ay, 

forsooth, 
They bring their own love with them 

when they come, 
But if they come not there is peace and 

rest ; 
The pretty lambs! and yet she cries 

for more : 
Why, the world's full of them, and so 

is heaven — 
They are not rare. 



G. No, mother, not at 

all; 
But Hannah must not keep our Fanny 

long — 
She spoils her. 
M. Ah! folks spoil their 

children now ; 
When I was a young woman 'twas not 

so; 
We made our children fear us, made 

them work. 
Kept them in order. 
G- Were not proud 

of them — 
Eh, mother? 
M. I set store by mine, 'tis 

true, 
But then I had good cause. 
G. My lad, 

d'ye hear? 
Your Granny was not proud, by no 

means proud ! 
She never spoilt your father — no, not 

she. 
Nor ever made him sing at harvest- 
home, 
Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's 

shop. 
Nor to the doctor while she lay abed 
Sick, and he crept up stairs to share 

her broth. 
M- Well, well, you were my young- 
est, and, what's more, 
Your father loved to hear you sing — he 

did. 
Although, good man, he could not tell 

one tune 
From the other. 

F. No, he got his voice 
.from you : 

Do use it, George, and send the child 
to sleep. 

G. What must I sing ? 

F. The ballad of the man 

That is so shy he cannot speak his mind. 

G. Ay, of the purple grapes and 
crimson leaves ; 

But, mother, put your shawl and bon- 
net off. 

And, Frances, lass, I brought some 
cresses in : 

Just wash them, toast the bacon, break 
some eggs, 

And let's to supper shortly. 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



[Si7tg5.'\ 

My neighbor White — we met to-day — 
He always had a cheerful way, 

As if he breathed at ease ; 
My neighbor White lives down the 

glade, ■ 
And I live higher, in the shade 

Of my old walnut-trees. 

So many lads and lasses small, 

To feed them all, to clothe them all, 

Must surely tax his wit ; 
I see his thatch when I look out, 
His branching roses creep about, 

And vines half smother it. 

There white-haired urchins climb his 

eaves, 
And little watch-fires heap with leaves. 

And milky filberts hoard ; 
And there his oldest daughter stands 
With downcast eyes and skilful hands 

Before her ironing-board. 

She comforts all her mother's days. 
And with her sweet obedient ways 

She makes lier labor light ; 
So sweet to hear, so fair to see ! 
O, she is much too good for me, 

That lovely Lettice White! 

'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool ! 
With that same lass I went to school — 

I then was great and wise ; 
She read upon an easier book, 
iVnd I — I never cared to look 

Into her shy blue eyes. 

And now I know they must be there, 
Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair 

That will not ra'.se their rim: 
If maids be shy, he cures who can ; 
But if a man be shy — a man — 

Why then the worse for him! 

My mother cries, " For such a lad 
A wife is easy to be had 

And always to be found ; 
A finer scholar scarce can be. 
And for a foot and leg," «ays she, 
""' He beats the country round! 



" My handsome boy must stoop his head 
To clear her door whom he would wed." 

Weak praise, but fondly sung! 
"O mother! scholars sometimes fail — 
And what can foot and leg avail 

To him that wants a tongue ? " 

When by her ironing-board I sit. 
Her little sisters round me flit, 

And bring me forth their store ; 
Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue, 
And small sweet apples, bright of hue 

And crimson to the core. 

But she abideth silent, fair ; 
All shaded by her flaxen hair 

The blushes come and go ; 
I look, and I no more can speak 
Than the red sun that on her cheek 

Smiles as he lieth low. 

Sometimes the roses by the latch, 

Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch, 

Come sailing down like birds ; 
When from their drifts her board I clear, 
She thanks me, but I scarce can hear 

The shyly uttered words. 

Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White 
By daylight and by candlelight 

When we two were apart. 
Some better day come on apace. 
And let me tell her face to face, 

" Maiden, thou hast my heart." 

How gently rock yon poplars high 
Against the reach of primrose sky 

With heaven's pale candles stored! 
She sees them all, sweet Lettice White » 
I'll e'en go sit again to-night 

Beside her ironing-board ! 



Why, you young rascal! who would 

think it, now ? 
No sooner do I stop than you look up. 
What would you have your poor old 

father do ? 
'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and 

not loud. 
M. He heard the bacon 

sputter on the fork. 
And heard his mother's step across t\v 

floor. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



19 



Where did you get that song?— 'tis new 
to me. 
G. I bought it of a pedlar. 
M. Did you so ? 

Well, you were always for the love- 
songs, George. 

F. My dear, just lay his head upon 
your arm, 

And if you'll pace and sing twommutes 

more 
He needs must sleep — his eyes are full 

of sleep. 

G. Do you sing, mother. 

F. Ay, good mother, do ; 
'Tis long since we have heard you. 

M. ' Like enough ; 

I'm an old woman, and the girls and 

lads 
I used to sing to sleep o'ertop me now. 
What should I sing for? 

G. Why, to pleasure us. 
Sing in the cliimney corner, where you 

sit. 
And I'll pace gently with the little one. 



[Mother sings. "[ 

When sparrows build, and the leaves 
break forth, 
My old sorrow wakes and cries. 
For I know there is dawn in the far, far 
north. 
And a scarlet sun doth rise ; 
Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field 
, spreads. 
And the icy founts run free. 
And the bergs begin to bow their 
heads. 
And plunge, and sail in the sea. 



O my lost love, and my own, own love, 

And my love that loved me so ! 
Is there never a chink in the world 
above 
Where they listen for words from 
below ? 
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee 
sore, 
I remember all that I said. 
And now thou wilt hear me no more — 
no more 
Till the sea gives up her dead. 



Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, 
and sail 
To the ice-fields and the snow ; 
Thou wert sad, for thy love did nought 
avail. 
And the end I could not know ; 
How could I tell I should love thee 
to-day. 
Whom that day I held not dear ? 
How could I know I should love thee 
away 
When I did not love thee anear? 

We shall walk no more through the 
sodden plain 
With the faded bents o'erspread. 
We shall stand no more by the seeth- 
ing main 
While the dark wrack drives o'er- 
head ; 
We shall part no more in the wind and 
the rain. 
Where thy last farewell was said : 
But perhaps I shall meet thee and 
know thee again 
When the sea gives up her dead. 

F. Asleep at last, and time he was, 

indeed. 
Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay 

him in ; 
And, mother, will you please to draw 

your chair? — 
The supper's ready. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

While ripening com grew thick and 

deep, 
And here and there men. stood to reap, 
One mom I put my heart to sleep, 

And to the lanes I took my way. 
The goldfinch on a thistle-head 
Stood scattering seedlets while she fed; 
The wrens their pretty gossip spread, 

Or joined a random roundelay. 

On hanging cobwebs shone the dew. 
And thick the wayside clovers grew ; 
The feeding bee had much to do. 
So fast did honey-drops exude : 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



She sucked and murmured, and was 

gone, 
And lit on other blooms anon, 
The while I learned a lesson on 
The source and sense of quietude. 

For sheep-bells chiming from a wold. 
Or bleat of lamb within its fold, 
Or cooing of love-legends old _ 

To dove-wives make not quiet less ; 
Ecstatic chirp of winged thing, 
Or bubbling of the water-spring. 
Are sounds that more than silence 
bring 

Itself and its delightsomeness. 

While thus I went to gladness fain, 
I had but walked a mile or twain 
Before my heart woke up again. 

As dreaming she had slept too late ; 
The morning freshness that she viewed 
With her own meanings she endued, 
And touched with her solicitude 

The natures she did meditate. 

" If quiet is, for it I wait ; 
To it, ah ! let me wed my fate. 
And, like a sad wife, supplicate 

My roving lord no more to flee ; 
If leisure is — but, ah! 'tis not — 
'Tis long past praying for, God wot 
The fashion of it men forgot, 

About the age of chivalry. 

" Sweet is the leisure of the bird ; 
She craves no time for work deferred ; 
Her wings are not to aching stirred 

Providing for her helpless ones. 
Fair is the leisure of the wheat ; 
All night the damps about it fleet ; 
All day it basketh in the heat. 

And grows, and whispers orisons. 

" Grand is the leisure of the earth ; 
She gives her happy myriads birth. 
And after harvest fears not dearth, 

But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths 
dim. 
Pread is the leisure up above 
The while He sits whose name is Love, 
And waits, as Noah did, for the dove. 

To wit if she would fly to him. 



" He waits for us, while, houseless 

things. 
We beat about with bruised wings 
On the dark floods and water-springs, 
The ruined world, the desolate sea ; 
With open windows from the prime 
All night, all day. He waits sublime, 
Until the fulness of the time 
Decreed from His eternity. 

" Where is our leisure ? — Give us rest. 
Where is the quiet we possessed ? 
We must have had it once — were blest 

With peace whose phantoms yet 
entice. 
Sorely the mother of mankind 
Longed for the garden left behind ; 
For we still prove some yearnings 
blind 

Inherited from Paradise." 

" Hold, heart! " I cried ; " for trouble 

sleeps ; 
I hear no sound of aught that weeps ; 
I will not look into thy deeps — 

I am afraid, I am afraid ! " 
"Afraid!" she saith ; "and yet 'tis 

true 
That what man dreads he still should 

view — 
Should do the thing he fears to do, 
And storm the ghosts in ambuscade." 

" What good ? " I sigh. " Was rea- 
son meant 
To straighten branches that are bent. 
Or soothe an ancient discontent. 

The instinct of a race dethroned? 
Ah ! doubly should that instinct go 
Must the four rivers cease to flow. 
Nor yield those rumors sweet and low 

Wherewith man' s life is undertoned.." 

"Yet had I but the past," she cries, 
" And it was lost, I would arise 
And comfort me some other wise._ 

But more than loss about me clings : 
I am but restless with my race ; 
The whispers from a heavenly place, 
Once dropped among us, seem to chase 

Rest with their prophet-visitings, 

" The race is like a child, as yet 
Too young for all things to be set 
Plainly before him with no let 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



Or hindrance meet for his degree ; 
But ne'ertheless by much too old 
Not to perceive that men withhold 
More of the story than is told, 

And so infer a mystery. 

" If the Celestials daily fly 
With messages on missions high, 
And float, our masts and turrets nigh, 
Conversing on Heaven's great in- 
tents ; 
What wonder hints of coming things, 
Whereto man's hope and yearning 

clings, 
Should drop like feathers from their 
wings 
And give us vague presentiments ? 

"And as the waxing moon can take 
The tidal waters in her wake 
And lead them round and round to 
break 

Obedient to her drawings dim ; 
So may the movements of his mind, 
The first Great Father of mankind, 
Affect with answering movements blind. 

And draw the souls that breathe by 
Him. 

" We had a message long ago 
That like a river peace should flow. 
And Eden bloom again below. 

We heard, and we began to wait : 
Full soon that message men forgot ; 
Yet waiting is their destined, lot, 
And waiting for they know not what 

They strive with yearnings passion- 
ate. 

"Regret and faith alike enchain ; 
There was a loss, there comes a gain ; 
We stand at fault betwixt the twain. 

And that is veiled for which we pant. 
Our lives are short, our ten times seven ; 
We think the councils held in heaven 
Sit long, ere yet that blissful leaven 

Work peace amongst the militant. 

" Then we blame God that sin should 

be: 
Adam began it at the tree, 
'The woman whom Thou gavest me ;' 

And we adopt his dark device. 
O long Thou tarriest ! come and reign, 



And bring forgiveness in Thy train, 
And give us in our hands again 
The apples of Thy Paradise. " 

"*Far-seeing heart ! if that be all, 
The happy things that did not fall," 
I sighed, "from every coppice call 

They never from that garden went. 
Behold their joy, so con^iort thee, 
Behold the blossom and the bee. 
For they are yet as good and free 

As when poor Eve was innocent. 

" But reason thus : ' If we sank low, 
If the lost garden we forego. 
Each in his day, nor ever know 

But in our poet souls its face ; 
Yet we may rise until we reach 
A height untold of in its speech — 
A lesson that it could not teach 

Learn in this darker dwelling-place.' 

" And reason on : ' We take the spoil ; 
Loss made us poets, and the soil 
Taught us great patience in our toil. 

And life is kin to God through death. 
Christ were not One with us but so. 
And if bereft of Him we go ; 
Dearer the heavenly mansions grow. 

His home, to man that wandereth.' 

" Content thee so, and ease thy smart." 
With that she slept again, my heart. 
And I admired and took my part 

With crowds of happy things the 
while : 
With open velvet butterflies 
That swung and spread their peacock 

eyes. 
As if they cared no more to rise 

From off their beds of camomile. 

The blackcaps in an orchard met. 
Praising the berries while they ate: 
The finch that flew her beak to whet 

Before she joined them on the tree ; 
The water mouse among the reeds — 
His bright eyes glancing black as beads, 
So happy with a bunch of seeds — 

I felt their gladness heartily. 

But I came on, I smelt the hay, 
And up the hills I took my way, 
And down them still made holiday, 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



And walked, and weaned not a whit ; 
But ever with the lane I went 
Until it dropped with steep descent, 
Cut deep into the rock, a tent 

Of maple branches roofing it. 

Adown the rock small runlets wept, 
And reckless ivies leaned and crept, 
And little spots of sunshine slept 

On its brown steeps and made them 
fair ; 
And broader beams athwart it shot, 
Where martins cheeped in many a 

knot, 
For they had ta'en a sandy plot 

And scooped another Petra there. 

And deeper down, hemmed in and hid 
From upper light and life amid 
The swallows gossiping, I thrid 

Its mazes, till the dipping land 
Sank to the level of my lane : 
That was the last hill of the chain, 
And fair below I saw the plain 

That seemed cold cheer to reprimand. 

Half-drowned in sleepy peace it lay. 
As satiate with the boundless play 
Of sunshine on its green array. 

And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue 
To keep it safe rose up behind. 
As with a charmed ring to bind 
The grassy sea, where clouds might 
find 

A place to bring their shadows to. 

I said, and blest that pastoral grace, 
" How sweet thou art, thou sunny 

place ! 
Thy God approves thy smiling face ; " 
But straight my heart put in her 
word ; 
She said, " Albeit thy face I bless. 
There have been times, sweet wilder- 
ness. 
When I have wished to love thee less. 
Such pangs thy smile administered." 

But, lo ! I reached a field of wheat. 
And by its gate full clear and sweet 
A workman sang, while at his feet 
Played a young child, all life and 
stir — 



A three years' child, with rosy lip. 
Who in the song had partnership. 
Made happy with each falling chip 
Dropped by the busy carpenter. 

This, reared a new gate for the old. 
And loud the tuneful measure rolled, 
But stopped as I came up to hold 

Some kindly talk of passing things. 
Brave were his eyes, and frank his 

mien ; 
Of all men's faces, calm or keen, 
A better I have never seen 

In all my lonely wanderings. 

And how it was I scarce can tell,- 
We seemed to please each other well ; 
I lingered till a noonday bell 

Had sounded, and his task was done. 
An oak had screened us from the heat ; 
And 'neath it in the standing wheat, 
A cradle and a fair retreat. 

Full sweetly slept the little one. 

The workman rested from his stroke. 
And manly were the words he spoke, 
Until the smiling babe awoke 

And prayed to him for milk and food. 
Then to a runlet forth he went, 
And brought a wallet from the bent. 
And bade me to the meal, intent 

I should not quit his neighborhood. 

" For here," said he, " are bread and 

beer. 
And meat enough to make good cheer ; 
Sir, eat with me, and have no fear. 

For none upon my work depend, 
Saving this child ; and I may say 
That I am rich, for every day 
I put by somewhat ; therefore sta}', 

And to such eating condescend." 

We ate. The child — child fair to 

see — 
Began to cling about his knee, 
And he down leaning fatherly 

Received some softly-prattled prayer; 
He smiled as if to list were balm. 
And with his labor-hardened palm 
Pushed from the baby-forehead calm 
Those shining locks that clustered 

there. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



23 



The rosy mouth made fresh essay — 
" O would he sing or would he play ? " 
I looked, my thought would make its 
way — 

" Fair is your child of face and limb, 
The round blue eyes full sweetly 

shine." 
He answered me with glance benign — 
"Ay, Sir ; but he is none of mine, 

Although I set great store by him." 

With that, as if his heart was fain 
To open — nathless not complain — 
He let my quiet questions gain 

His story : " Not of kin to me," 
Repeating ; " but asleep, awake, 
For worse, for better, him I take. 
To cherish for my dead wife's sake, 

And count him as her legacy. 

" I married with the sweetest lass 
That ever stepped on meadow grass ; 
That ever at her looking-glass 

Some pleasure took, some natural 
care ; 
That ever swept a cottage floor 
And worked all day, nor e'er gave o'er 
Till eve, then watched beside the door 

Till her good man should meet her 
there. . 

" But I lost all in its fresh prime ; 
My wife fell ill before her time — 
Just as the bells began to chime 

One Sunday morn. By next day's 
light 
Her little babe was born and dead, 
And she, unconscious what she said. 
With feeble hands about her spread, 

Sought it with yearnings infinite. 

" With mother-longing still beguiled, 
And lost in fever-fancies wild. 
She piteously bemoaned her child 

That we had stolen, she said, away. 
And ten sad days she sighed to me, 
* I cannot rest until I see 
My pretty one ! I think that he 

Smiled in my face but yesterday.' 

" Then she would change, and faintly 

To smg some tender lullaby ; 
And ' Ah ! ' would moan, ' if I should 
die. 



Who, sweetest babe, would cherish 
thee ?/ 
Then weep, ' My pretty boy is grown 
With tender feet on the cold stone 
He stands, for he can stand alone. 

And no one leads him motherly.' 

" Then she with dying movements slow 
Would seem to knit, or seem to sew : 
' His feet are bare, he must not go 

Unshod : ' and as her death drew on, 
* O little baby,' she would sigh ; 
' My little child, 1 cannot die 
Till I have you to slumber nigh — 

You, you to set mine eyes upon.' 

" When she spake thus, and moaning 

lay. 
They said, ' She cannot pass away, 
So sore she longs : ' and as the day 

Broke on the hills, I left her side. 
Mourning along this lane I went : 
Some traveUing folk had pitched their 

tent 
Up yonder : there a woman, bent 

With age, sat meanly canopied. 

" A twelvemonths' child was at her 

side : 
' Whose infant may that be ? ' I cried. 
' His that will own him,' she replied ; 
' His mother's dead, no worse could 

be.' 
* Since you can give— or else I erred — 
See, you are taken at your word,' 
Quoth I ; ' That child is mine ; I heard, 
And own him ! Rise, and give hin: 

me.' 

" She rose amazed, but cursed me too ; 
She could not hold such luck for true, 
But gave him soon, with small ado. 

I laid him by my Lucy's side : 
Close to her face that baby crept, 
And stroked it, and the sweet soul wept ; 
Then, while upon her arm he slept. 

She passed, for she was satisfied. 

" I loved her well, I wept her sore. 

And when her funeral left my door 

I thought that I should never more 

Feel any pleasure near me glow ; 



24 



THE STARS MONUMENT. 



But I have learned, though this I had, 
'Tis sometimes natural to be glad, 
And no man can be always sad 
Unless he wills to have it so. 



*' Oh, I had heavy nights at first, 
And daily wakening was the worst : 
For then my grief arose, and burst 

Like something fresh upon my head ; 
Yet when less keen it seemed to grow, 
I was not pleased — I wished to go 
Mourning adown this vale of woe, 

For all my life uncomforted. 

" I grudged myself the lightsome air, 
That makes man_ cheerful unaware ; 
When comfort came, I did not care 

To take it in, to feel it stir : 
And yet God took with me His plan, 
And now for my appointed span 
1 think I am a happier man 

For having wed and wept for her. 

*' Because no natural tie remains. 
On this small thing I spend my gains ; 
God makes me love him for irfy pains. 

And binds me so to wholesome care : 
I would not lose from my past life 
That happy year, that happy wife ! 
Yet now I wage no useless strife 

With feelings blithe and debonair. 



" I have the courage to be gay. 
Although she lieth lapped away 
Under the daisies, for I say, 

' Thou wouldst be glad if thou couldst 
see: ' 
My constant thought makes manifest 
I have not what I love the best, 
But I must thank God for the rest 

While I hold heaven a verity." 



He rose, upon his shoulder set 

The child, and while with vague regret 

We parted, pleased that we had met. 

My heart did with herself confer ; 
With wholesome shame she did repent 
Her reasonings idly eloquent, 
And said, " I might be more content: 

But God go with the carpenter." 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

IN THE CONCLUDING PART OF A DI.« • 
COURSE ON FAME. 

\.He thinks. '\ 
If there be memory in the world to 
come. 
If thought recur to some things si- 
lenced here, 
Then shall the deep heart be no longer 
dumb, 
But find expression in that happiei 
sphere ; 
It shall not be denied their utmost sum 
Of love, to speak without or fault ot 
fear, 
But utter to the harp with changes 

sweet 
Words that, forbidden still, then heave* li 
were incomplete. 

\_He speaks. ^ 

Now let us talk about the ancient daySj 

And things which happened long be' 

fore our birth : 
It is a pity to lament that praise 
Should be no shadow in the train ol 

worth. 
What is it, Madam, that your hear! 

dismays ? 
Why murmur at the course of this va?1 

earth ? 
Think rather of the work than of the 

praise ; 
Come, we will talk about the ancieni 

days. 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (saif 

he); 
I will relate his story to you now. 
While through the branches of this 

apple-tree 
Some spots of sunshine flicker oi 

your brow ; 
While every flower hath on its breast i 

bee, 
And every bird in stirring doth en- 
dow 
The- grass with falling blooms tha*: 

smoothly glide. 
As ships drop down a river with t)^£ 

tide. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



25 



For telling of his tale no fitter place 
Than this old orchard, sloping to the 
west ; 
riirough its pink dome of blossom I 
can trace 
Some overlying azure ; for the rest, 
These flowery branches round us in- 
terlace ; 
The ground is hollowed like a mossy 
nest : 
Who talks of fame while the religious 

spring 
Offers the incense of her blossoming? 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (said 

he), 
Who, while he walked at sundown' 

in a lane. 
Took to his heart the hope that destiny 
Had singled him this guerdon to 

obtain, 
That by the power of his sweet min- 
strelsy 
Some hearts for truth and goodness 

he should gain, 
And charm some grovellers to uplift 

their eyes 
And suddenly wax conscious of the 

skies. 

"Master, good e'en to ye! " a wood- 
man said, 
Who the low hedge was trimming 

with his shears. 
" This hour is fine " — the Poet bowed 

his head. 
"More fine," he thought, "O friend! 

to me appears 
The sunset than to you ; finer the 

spread 
Of orange lustre through these azure 

spheres. 
Where little clouds lie still, hke flocks 

of sheep. 
Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. 

"O finer far! What work so high as 
mine. 
Interpreter betwdxt the world and 
man, 
Nature's ungathered pearls to set and 
shrine. 
The mystery she wraps her in to 
scan; 



Her unsyllabic voices to combine. 
And serve her with such love as 
poets can ; 

With mortal words, her chant of praise 
to bind. 

Then die, and leave the poem to man- 
kind? 

"O fair, O fine, O lot to be desired! 

Early and late my heart appeals to me. 
And says, ' O work, O will — Thou 
man, be fired 
To earn this lot,' — she says, * I 
would not be 
A worker for mine own bread, or one 
hired 
For mine own profit. O, I would be 
free 
To work for others ; love so earned of 

them 
Should be my wages and my diadem. 

"'Then when I died I should not fall,' 

says she, 
'Like dropping flowers that no man 

noticeth, 
But like a great branch of some stately 

tree 
Rent in a tempest, and flung down 

to death, 
Thick with green leafage — so that 

piteously 
Each passer by that ruin shuddereth. 
And saith. The gap this branch hath 

left is wide ; 
The loss thereof can never be sup- 
plied.' " 

But, Madam, while the Poet pondered 

so, 
Toward the leafy hedge he turned 

his eye. 
And saw two slender branches that did 

grow, _ _ 
And from it rising spring and flourish 

high : 
Their tops were twined together fast, 

and, lo. 
Their shadow crossed the path as he 

went by — 
The shadow of a wild rose and a briar, 
And it was shaped in semblance like a 

lyre. 



26 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



In sooth, a lyre! and as the soft air 

played, 
Those b^^nches stirred, but did not 

disunite. 
" O emblem meet for me ! " the Poet 

said; 
"Ay, I accept and own thee for my 

right ; 
The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid, 
Distinct though frail, and clear with 

crimson light: 
Fast is it twined to bear the windy 

strain, 
And, supple, it will bend and rise 

again. 

''This Ij're is cast across the dusty way, 
The common path that common men 
pursue ; 

I crave like blessing for my shadowy 
lay, 
Life's trodden paths with beauty to 
renew. 

And cheer the eve of many a toil- 
stained day. 
Light it, old sun, wet it, thou com- 
mon dew, 

That 'neath men's feet its image still 
may be 

Wlnle yet it waves above them, living 
lyre, like thee! " 

But even as the Poet spoke, behold 

He lifted up his face toward the sky ; 
The ruddy sun dipt under the grey 
wold, 
His shadovsry lyre was gone ; and, 
passing by, 
The woodman lifting up his shears, 
was bold 
Their temper on those branches twain 
to tiy. 
And all their loveliness and leafage 

sweet 
Fell In the pathway, at the Poet's feet. 

"Ah! my fair emblem that I chose," 
quoth he, 
"That for myself I coveted but now. 
Too soon, methinks, thou hast been 
false to me ; 
The lyre from pathway fades, the 
light from brow." 



Then straightway turned he from it 
hastily. 
As di-eam that waking sense will dis- 
allow ; 

And while the highway heavenward 
paled apace, 

He went on westward to his dwelling- 
place. 

He went on steadily, while far and fast 
The summer darkness dropped upon 
the world, 
A gentle air among the cloudlets passed 
And fanned away their crimson ; then, 
it curied 
The yellow poppies in the field, and 
cast 
A dimness on the grasses, for it 
iurled 
Their daisies, and swept out the purple 

stain 
That eve had left upon the pastoral 
plain. 

He reached his city. Lo! the dark- 
ened street 
Where he abode was full of gazing 

crowds ; 
He heard the muffled tread of many 

feet; 
A multitude stood gazing at the 

clouds. ' 
"What mark ye there," said he, "and 

wherefore meet ? 
Only a passing mist the heaven o'er- 

shrouds ; 
It breaks, it parts, It drifts like scattered 

spars — 
What lies behind it but the nightly 

stars ? ' ' 



Then did the gazing crowd to him 
aver 
They sought a lamp in heaven whose 
light was hid ; 
For that in sooth an old Astronomer 
Down from his roof had rushed into 
their mid, 
Frighted, and fain with others to con- 
fer, 
That he had cried, " sirs! " — and 
upward bid 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



27 



Them gaze — " O sirs, a light is quench- 
ed afar ; 
Look up, my masters, we have lost a 

ctar I " 



The people pointed, and the Poet's eyes 
Flew upward, where a gleaming sis- 
terhood 
Swam in the dewy heaven. The very 
skies 
Were mutable; for all-amazed he 
stood 
To see that truly not in any wise 
He could behold them as of old, nor 
could 
His eyes receive the whole whereof he 

wot, 
But when he told them over, one was 

NOT. 



While yet he gazed and pondered rev- 
erently, 
The tickle folk began to move 

away. 
"It is but one star less for us to 

see; 
And what does one star signify ? ' ' quoth 

they ; 
*' The heavens are full of them." " But, 

ah ! " said he, 
" That star was bright while yet she 

lasted." "Ay!" 
T"hey answered : "praise her, Poet, an' 

ye will : 
Some are now shining that are brighter 

still." 



"Poor star! to be disparagM so soon 
On her withdrawal," thus the Poet 

sighed ; 
*' That men should miss, and straight 

deny her noon 
Its brightness ! " But the people in 

their pride 
Said, " How are we beholden ? 'twas no 

boon 
She gave. Her nature 'twas to shine 

so wide : 
She could not choose but shine, nor 

could we know 
Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but 

so." 



The Poet answered sadly, "That is 

true ! " 
And then he thought upon unthank- 

fulness ; 
While some went homewai'd ; and the 

residue, 
Reflecting that the stars are number- 
less, 
Mourned that man's daylight hours 

should be so few. 
So short the shining that his path 

may biess : 
To nearer themes then tuned their 

willing lips. 
And thought no more upon the star's 

eclipse. 

But he, the Poet, could not rest content 
Till he had found that old Astrono- 
mer ; 
Therefore at midnight to his house 
he went 
And prayed him be his tale's inter- 
preter. 
And yet upon the heaven his eyes he 
bent, 
Hearing the marvel ; yet he sought 
for her 
That was awanting, in the hope her face 
Once more might fill its reft abiding- 
place. 

Then said the old Astronomer : " My 
son, 
I sat alone upon my roof to-night ; 
I saw the stars come forth, and scarcely 
shun 
To fringe the edges of the western 
light ; 
I marked those ancient clusters one by 
one, 
The same that blessed our old fore- 
father's sight : 
For God alone is older — none but He 
Can charge the stars with mutability : 

"The elders of the night, the stead- 
fast stars. 
The old, old stars which God has let 
us see. 
That they might be our soul's auxiliars, 
And help us to the truth how young 
we be — 



28 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



God's youngest, latest born, as if, some 

spars 
And a little clay being over of them 

— He 
Had made our world and us thereof, 

yet given, 
To humble us, the sight of His gi-eat 

heaven. 

" But ah ! my son, to-night mine eyes 

have seen 
The death of light, the end of old 

renown ; 
A shrinking back of glory that had been, 
A dread eclipse before the Eternal's 

frown. 
How soon a little grass will grow be- 
tween 
These eyes and those appointed to 

look down 
Upon a world that was not made on 

high 
Till the last scenes of their long em- 

piry! 

"To-night that shining cluster now de- 
spoiled 
Lay in day's wake a perfect sister- 
hood ; 

Sweet was its light to me that long had 
toiled, 
It gleamed and trembled o'er the 
distant wood ; 

Blo-\vn in a pile the clouds from it re- 
coiled. 
Cool twilight up the sky her way 
made good ; 

I saw, but not believed — it was so 
strange — 

That one of those same stars had suf- 
fered change. 

"The darkness gathered, and me- 
thought she spread, 
Wrapped in a reddish haze that 
waxed and waned ; 
But notwithstanding to myself I said — 
' The stars are changeless ; sure some 
mote hath stained 
*Iine eyes, and her fair glory min- 
ish6d.' 
Of age and failing vision I com- 
plained, 



And thought ' some vapor in the heav- 
ens doth swim. 

That makes her look so large and yet 
so dim.' 



" But I gazed round, and all her lus' 

trous peers 
In her red presence showed but wan 

and white ; 
For like a living coal beheld through 

tears 
She glowed and quivered with a 

gloomy light : 
Methought she trembled, as all sick 

through fears, 
Helpless, appalled, appealing to the 

night ; 
Like one who throws his arms up to 

the sky 
And bows down suffering, hopeless of 

reply. 

" At length, as if an everlasting Hand 
Had taken hold upon her in her 

place, 
And swiftly, like a golden grain of 

sand, 
Through all the deep infinitudes of 

space 
Was drawing her — God' s truth as 

here I stand — 
Backward and inward to itself ; her 

face 
Fast lessened, lessened, till it looked 

no more 
Than smallest atom on a boundless 

shore. 

And she that was so fair, I saw her lie. 
The smallest thing in God's great 
firmament. 
Till night was at the darkest, and on 
high 
Her sisters glittered, though her 
light was spent ; 
I strained, to follow her, each aching 
eye. 
So swiftly at her Maker's will she 
went ; 
I looked again — I looked — the star 

was gone, 
And nothing marked in heaven where 
she had shone." 



THE STAR'S JMONUMENT. 



29 



"Gone!" said the P.oet, " and about 

to be 
Forgotten : O, how sad a fate is 

hers ! " 
"Howls it sad, my son?" all rever- 
ently 
The old man answered; "though 

she ministers 
No longer with her lamp to me and 

thee, 
She has fulfilled her mission. God 

transfers 
Or dims her ray ; yet was she blest as 

bright. 
For all her life was' spent in giving 

light." 

" Her mission she fulfilled assuredly," 
The Poet cried: "but, O unhappy 
star! 
None praise and few will bear in memory 
The name she went by. O, from far, 
from far 
Comes down, methinks, her mournful 
voice to me, 
Full of regrets that men so thankless 
are." 
So said, he told that old Astronomer 
All that the gazing crowd had said of 
her. 

And he went on to speak in bitter wise. 
As one who seems to tell another's 
fate, 
But feels that nearer meaning underlies, 
And points its sadness to his own es- 
tate : 
" If such be the reward," he said with 
sighs, 
" Enwto earn for love, for goodness 
hate — 
If such be thy reward, hard case is 

thine ! 
It had been better for thee not to shine. 

" If to reflect a light that is divine 
Makes that which doth reflect it bet- 
ter seen. 
And if to see is to contemn the shrine, 
'Twere surely better it had never 
been : 
It had been better for her not to 

SHINE, 



And for me not to sing. .Better, I 

ween. 
For us to yield no more that radiance 

bright. 
For them, to lack the light than scorn 

the light." 

Strange words were those from Poet 

lips (said he) ; 
And then he paused,and sighed, and 

turned to look 
Upon the lady's downcast eyes, and see 
How fast the honey bees in settling 

shook 
Those apple blossoms on her from the 

tree ; 
He watched her busy fingers as they 

took 
And slipped the knotted thread, and 

thought how much 
He would have given that hand to hold 

— to touch. 

At length, as suddenly become aware 
Of this long pause, she lifted up her 
face. 
And he withdrew his eyes — she looked 
so fair 
And cold, he thought, in her uncon- 
scious grace. 
"Ah ! little dreams she of the restless 
care," 
He thought, " that makes my heart 
to throb apace : 
Though we this morning part, the 

knowledge sends 
No thrill to her calm pulse — we are 

but FRIENDS." 

Ah ! turret clock (he thought), I would 

thy hand 
Were hid behind yon towering maple- 
trees ! 
Ah ! tell-tale shadow, but one moment 

stand — 
Dark shadow — fast advancing to my 

knees ; 
Ah! foolish heart (he thought), that 

vainly planned 
By feigning gladness to arrive at ease ; 
Ah ! painful hour, yet pain to think it 

ends : 
I must reiiiember that we are but 

friends. 



30 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



And while the knotted thread moved 
to and fro, 
In sweet regretful tones that lady said : 
" It seemeth that the fame you would 
forego 
The Poet whom you tell of coveted ; 
But I would fain, methinks, his story 
know. 
And was he loved?" said she, "or 
was he wed ? 
And had he friends?" "One friend, 

Jjerhaps," said he ; 
or the rest, I pray you let it be." 

Ah ! little bird (he thought), most pa- 
tient bird, 
Breasting thy speckled eggs the long 
day through, 

By so much as my reason is preferred 
Above thine instinct, I my work 
would do 

Better than thou dost thine. Thou 
hast not stirred 
This hour thy wing. Ah! russet 
bird, I sue 

For a like patience to wear through 
these hours — 

Bird on thy nest among the apple- 
flowers. 

I will not speak — I will not speak to 
thee. 
My star ! and soon to be my lost, lost 
star. 
The sweetest, first, that ever shone on 
me, 
So high above me and beyond so far; 
I can forego thee, but not bear to see 
My love, like rising mist, thy lustre 
mar : 
That were a base return for thy sweet 

light. 
Shine, though I never more shall see 
that thou art bright. 

Never! 'Tis certain that no hope is — 
none ! 
No hope for me, and yet for thee no 
fear. 
The hardest part of my hard task is 
done ; 
Thy calm assures me that I am not 
dear ; 



Though far and fast the rapid moments 
run, 
Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes 
are clear ; I 

Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart I 

She is. I am her friend, and I depart. T 

Silent she had been, but she raised her 

face ; 
"And will vou end," said she, "this 

half-toid tale?" 
"Yes, it were best," he answered her. 

" The place 
Where I left off was where he felt to 

fail 
His courage. Madam, through the fancy 

base • 

That they who love, endure, or work, 

may rail 
And cease — if all their love, the works 

they wrought. 
And their endurance, men have set at 

nought." 

' It had been better for me not to sing," 
My Poet said, "and for her not to 
shine ; " 
But him tlie old man answered, sorrow- 
ing) 
" My son, did God who made her, 
the Divine 
Lighter of suns, when down to yon 
bright ring 
He cast her, like some gleaming al- 
mandlne, 
And set her in her place, begirt with 

rays. 
Say unto her 'Give light,' or say 
' Earn praise ? ' " 

The Poet said, " He made her to give 
light." 
"My son," the old man answered, 
"blest are such, 
A blessed lot is theirs ; but if each night 
Mankind had praised her radiance — 
inasmuch 
As praise had never made it wax more 
bri.cht. 
And cannot now rekindle with its 
toucli 
Her lost effulgence, it is nought. I wot 
That praise was not her blessing noi 
her lot." 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



31 



"Ay," said the Poet, "I my words 
abjure. 
And I repent me.that I uttered them ; 
But by her hght and by its forfeiture 
She shall not pass without her re- 
quiem. 
Though my name perish, yet shall hers 
endure ; 
Though I should be forgotten, she, 
lost gem, 
Shall be remembered ; though she . 

sought not fame, 
It shall be busy with her beauteous 
name. 



" For I will raise in her bright memory, 
Lost now on earth, a lasting monu- 
ment. 
And graven on it shall recorded be 
That all her rays to light mankind 
were spent ; 
And I will sing albeit none heedeth me. 

On her exemplar being still intent : 
While in men's sight shall stand the 

record thus — 
'So long as she did last she lighted 



So said, he raised, according to his 
vow, 
On the green grass, where oft his 
townsfolk met, 
Under the shadow of a leafy bough 

That leaned toward a singing rivulet, 

One pure white stone, whereon, like 

crown on brow, 

The image of the vanished star was 

■ set ; 

And this was graven on the pure white 

stone 
In golden letters — " While she lived 

SHE SHONE." 

Madam, I cannot give this story well — 
My heart is beating to another chime ; 
]\Iy voice must needs a different cadence 
swell ; 
It is yon singing bird, which all the 
time 
Wooeth his nested mate, that doth dis- 
I^el 
My thouglrts. What, deem you, could 
a lover's rhyme 



The sweetness of that passionate lay 
excel ? 

soft, O low her voice — "I cannot 

tell." 

IHe thiiiks.l 
The old man — ay, he spoke, he was 
not hard ; 
"She was his joy," he said, "his 
comforter. 
But he would trust me. I was not de- 
barred 
Whate'er my heart approved to say 
to her." 
Approved! O torn and tempted and 
ill-starred 
And breaking heart, approve not nor 
demur ; 
It is the serpent that beguileth thee 
With " God doth know" beneath this 
apple-tree. 

Yea, God doth know, and only God 
doth know. 
Have pity, God, my spirit groans to 
Thee ! 

1 bear Thy curse primeval, and I go ; 
But heavier than on Adam falls on me 

My tillage of the wilderness ; for, lo ! 

I leave behind the woman, and I see 
As 'twere the gates of Eden closing 

o'er 
To hide her from my sight for evermore. 

\He speaks.'\ 
I am a fool, with sudden start he cried. 
To let the song-bird work me such 
unrest : 
If I break off again, I pray you chide, 
For morning fleeteth, with my tale at 
best 
Half told. That white stone. Madam, 
pleamed beside 
Tlie'little rivulet, and all men pressed 
To read the lost one's story traced 

thereon, 
The golden legend — " While she lived 
she shone." 

And, iNIadam, when the Poet heard 
them read, 
And children spell the letters softly 
through, 



32 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



It may be that he felt, at heart some 

need, 
Some craving to be thus remembered 

too ; 
It may be that he wondered if indeed 
He must die wholly when he passed 

from view ; 
It may be, wished, when death his eyes 

made dim, 
That some kind hand would raise such 

stone for him. 

But shortly, as there comes to most of 

us, 
There came to him the need to quit 

his liome : 
To tell you why were simply hazardous. 
What said I, Madam? — men were 

made to roam 
My meaning is. It hath been always 

thus : 
They are athirst for mountains and 

sea foam ; 
Heirs of this world, what wonder if 

perchance 
They long to see their grand inheri- 
tance ? 

He left his city, and went forth to teach 
Mankind, his peers, the hidden har- 
mony 

That underlies God's discords, and to 
reacli 
And touch the master-string that like 
a sigh 

Thrills in their souls, as if it would 
beseech 
Some hand to sound it, and to sat- 
isfy 

Its yearning for expression : but no 
word 

Till poet touch it hath to make its mu- 
sic heard. 



IHe thinks. 'I 
I know that God is good, though evil 
dwells 
Among us, and doth all things holi- 
est share ; 
That there is joy in heaven, while yet 
our knells 
Sound for the souls which He has 
summoned there ; 



That painful love unsatisfied hath 
spells 
Earned by its smart to soothe its fel- 
low' s care : 

But yet this atom cannot in the 
whole 

Forget itself — it aches a separate soul. 

\_He speaks.'] 
But, Madam, to mj' Poet I return. 
With liis sweet cadences of woven 
words 
He made their rude untutored hearts 
to burn 
And melt like gold refined. No 
brooding birds 
Sing better of the love that doth so- 
journ 
Hid in the nest of home, which softly 
girds 
The beating heart of life ; and, strait 

thougli it be. 
Is straitness better than wide liberty. 

He taught them, and they learned, but 

not tlie less 
Remained unconscious whence that 

lore they drew, 
But dreamed that of their native noble- 
ness 
Some lofty thoughts, that he had 

planted, grew ; 
His glorious maxims in a lowly 

dress. 
Like seed sown broadcast, sprung in 

all men's view. 
The sower, passing onward, was not 

known, 
And all men reaped the harvest as 

their own. 

It may be. Madam, that those ballads 
sweet, 
Whose rhythmic measures yesterday 
we sung, 
Which time and changes make not ob- 
solete. 
But (as a river bears down blossoms 
flung 
Upon its breast) take with them while 
they fleet — 
It may be from his lyre that first 
they sprung: 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT, 



33 



But who can tell, since work surviveth 

fame ? — 
The rhyme is left, but lost the Poet's 

name. 

He worked, and bravely he fulfilled 

his trust — 
So long he wandered sowing worthy 

seed, 
Watering of wayside buds that were 

adust, 
And touching for the common ear 

his reed — 
So long to wear away the cankering 

rust 
That dulls the gold of life — so long 

to plead 
With sweetest music for all souls op- 
pressed, 
That he was old ere he had thought of 

rest. 

Old and grey-headed, leaning on a 
staff. 
To that great city of his birth he 
came. 
And at its gates he paused with won- 
dering laugh 
To think how changed were all his 
thoughts of fame 
Since first he carved the golden epi- 
taph 
To keep in memory a worthy name. 
And thought forgetfulness hard been its 

doom 
But for a few bright letters on a tomb. 

The old Astronomer had long since 

died ; 
The friends of youth were gone and 

far dispersed ; 
Strange were the domes that rose on 

every side ; 
Strange fountains on his wondering 

vision burst ; 
The men of yesterday their business 

plied ; 
No face was left that he had known 

at first ; 
And in the city gardens, lo! he 

sees 
The saplings that he set are stately 

trees. 



Upon the grass beneath their welcome 
shade. 
Behold! he marks the fair white 
monument. 
And on its face the golden words dis- 
played. 
For sixty years their lustre have not 
spent ; 
He sitteth by it and is not afraid. 
But in its shadow he is well con- 
tent; 
And envies _ not, though bright their 

gleamings are, 
The golden letters of the vanished star. 

He gazeth up ; exceeding bright ap- 
pears 
That golden legend to his aged eyes. 
For they are dazzled till they fill with 
tears, 
And his lost Youth doth like a vision 
rise ; 
She saith to him, " In all these toil- 
some years. 
What hast thou won by work or en- 
terprise? 
What hast thou won to make amends 
to thee, 
• As thou didst swear to do, for loss of 
me? 

" O man*! O white-haired man ! " the 

vision said, 
" Since we two sat beside this monu- 
ment 
Life's clearest hues are all evanished. 
The golden wealth thou hadst of me 

is spent ; 
The wind hath swept thy flowers, their 

leaves are shed ; 
The music is played out that with 

thee went." 
"Peace, peace!" he cried; "I lost 

thee, but, in truth, 
There are worse losses than the loss of 

youth." 

He said not what those losses were — 
but I — 
But I must leave them, for .the tune 
draws near. 
Some lose not only joy, but memoiy 
Of how it felt : not love that was so 
dear 



34 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



Lose only, but the steadfast certainty 
That once they had it ; doubt comes 

on, then fear, 
And after that despondency. I wis 
The Poet must have meant such loss as 

this. 

But while he sat and pondered on his 
youth. 
He said, " It did one deed that doth 
remain, 
For it preserved the memory and the 
truth 
Of her that now doth neither set nor 
wane, 
But shine in all men's thoughts; nor 
sink forsooth, 
And be forgotten like the summer rain. 
O, it is good that man should not forget 
Or benefits foregone or brightness set ! " 

He spoke and said, " My lot contenteth 

me ; 
I am right glad for this her worthy 

fame ; 
That which was good and great I fain 

would see 
Drawn with a halo round what rests 

— its name." 
This while the Poet said, behold, there 

came 
A workman with his tools anear the 

tree. 
And when he read the words he paused 

awhile 
And pondered on them with a wonder- 
ing smile. 

And then he said, "I pray you, Sir, 

what mean 
The golden letters of this monu- 
ment?" 
In wonder quoth the Poet, " Hast thou 

been 
A dweller near at hand, and their 

intent 
Hast neither heard by voice of fame, 

nor seen 
The marble earlier?" "Ay," said 

he, and leant 
Upon his spade to hear the tale, then 

sigh, 
And say it was a marvel, and pass by. 



Then said the Poet, "This is strange 

to me." 
But as he mused, with trouble in his 
mind, 
A band of maids approached him 
leisurel}', 
Like vessels sailing with a favoring 
wind ; 
And of their rosy lips requested he, 
As one that for a doubt would solving 
find, 
The tale, if tale there were, of that 

white stone. 
And those fair letters — "While she 
lived she shone." 

Then like a fleet that floats becalmed 
they stay. 
"O, Sir," saith one, "this monu- 
ment is old ; 
But we have heard our virtuous mothers 
say 
That by their mothers thus the tale 
was told : 
A Poet made it ; journeying then away, 
He left us ; and though some the 
meaning hold 
For other than the ancient one, yet we 
Receive this legend for a certainty : — 

"There was a lily once, most purely 
white, 
Beneath the shadow of these boughs 
it grew ; 
Its starry blossom it unclosed by night, 
And a young Poet loved its shape 
and hue. 
He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a 
sight. 
Until a stormy wind arose and blew, 
And when he came once more his 

flower to greet 
Its fallen petals drifted to his feet. 

" And for his beautiful white lily's sake. 
That she might be remembered 
where her scent 
Had been right sweet, he said that he 
would make 
In her dear memory a monument: 
For she was purer than a driven flake 
Of snow, and in her grace most ex- 
cellent ; 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



35 



The loveliest life that death did ever 

mar, 
As beautiful to gaze on as a star," 

" I thank you, maid," the Poet an- 
swered her, 
"And I am glad that I have heard 

your tale." 
With that they passed; and as an 

inlander, 
Having heard breakers raging in a 

gale 
And falling down in thunder, will aver 
That still, when far away in grassy 

vale. 
He seems to hear those seething waters 

bound. 
So in his ears the maiden's voice did 

sound. . 

He leaned his face upon his hand, and 
thought 
And thought, until a youth came by 
that way ; 
And once again of him the Poet sought 
The story of the star. But, well-a- 
day! 
He said, "The meaning with much 
doubt is fraught, . 
The sense thereof can no man surely 
say; 
For still tradition sways the common 

ear. 
That of a truth a star did disappear. 

" But they who look beneath the outer 
shell 
That wraps the 'kernel of the peo- 
ple's lore,' 
Hold THAT for superstition ; and they 
tell 
That seven lovely sisters dwelt of yore 
In this old city, where it so befell 
That one a Poet loved ; that, further- 
more. 
As stars above us she was pure and 

good. 
And fairest of that beauteous sister- 
hood. 

*' So beautiful they were, those virgins 
seveft, . 
That all men called them clustered 
stars in song, 



Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven : 
But woman bideth not beneath it 

long ; 
For O, alas ! alas ! one fated even, 
When stars their azvire deeps .began 

to throng, 
That virgin' s eyes of Poet loved waxed 

dim, 
And all their lustrous shining waned to 

him. 

" In summer dusk she drooped her 
head and sighed 
Until what time the evening star 
went down. 

And all the other stars did shining bide 
Clear in the lustre of their old re- 
nown. 

And then — the virgin laid her down 
and died : 
Forgot her youth, forgot her beauty's 
crown. 

Forgot the sisters whom she loved 
before, 

And broke her Poet's heart for ever- 
more." 

"A mournful tale, in sooth," the lady 
saith : 
" But did he truly grieve for ever- 
more?" 
" It may be you forget," he answereth, 
"That this is but a fable at the core 
O' the other fable." "Though it be 
but breath," 
She asketh, "was it true?" Then 
he, " This lore. 
Since it is fable, either way may go ; 
Then, if it please you, think it might 
be so." 

" Nay, but," she saith, "if I had told 
your tale. 
The virgin should have lived his 
home to bless, 
Or, must she die, I would have made 
to fail 
His useless love." " I tell you not 
the less," 
He sighs, " because it was of no avail : 
His heart the Poet would not dis- 
possess 
Thereof. But let us leave the fable now, 



My Poet heard it with an aching brow.' 



36 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



And he made answer thus: "I thank 
thee, youth ; 
Strange is thy story to these aged ears, 
But I bethink me thou hast told a 
truth 
Under the guise of fable. If my tears. 
Thou lost beloved star, lost now, for- 
sooth, 
Indeed could bring thee back among 
thy peers, 
So new thou shouldst be deemed as 

newly seen. 
For men forget that thou hast ever 
been. 

" There was a morning when I longed 

for fame. 
There was a noontide when I passed 

it by, 
There is an evening when I think not 

shame 
Its substance and its being to deny ; 
For if men bear in mind great deeds, 

the name 
Of him that wrought them shall they 

leave to die ; 
Of if his name they shall have deathless 

writ. 
They change the deeds that first enno- 
bled it. 

" O golden letters of this monument ! 
O words to celebrate a loved renown 
Lost now or wrested, and to fancies 
lejit. 
Or on a fabled forehead set for 
crown ! 
For my departed star, I am content, 
Though legends dim and years her 
memory drown : 
Per what were fame to her, compared 

and set 
By this great truth which ye make 
lustrous yet ? ' ' 

"Adieu!" the Poet said, "my van- 
ished star, 
Thy duty and thy happiness were 
one. 
Work is heaven's hest ; its fame is 
sublunar : 
The fame thou dost not need — the 
work is done. 



For thee I am content that these things 

are ; 
More than content were I, my race 

being run. 
Might it be true of me, though none 

thereon 
Should muse regretful — 'While he 

lived he shone.' " 

So said, the Poet rose and went his 
way, 
And that same lot he proved whereof 
he spake. 
Madam, my story is told out ; the day 
Draws out her shadows, time doth 
overtake 
The morning. That which endeth call 
a lay. 
Sung after pause — a motto in the 
break 
Between two chapters of a tale not new, 
Nor joyful — but a common tale. 
Adieu ! 

And that same God who made your 
face so fair. 
And gave your woman's heart its 
tenderness. 
So shield the blessing He implanted 
tliere, 
That it may never turn to your dis- 
tress. 
And never cost you trouble or despair. 
Nor, granted, leave the granter com- 
fortless ; 
But like a river, blest where'er it 

flows. 
Be still receiving while it still bestows. 

Adieu, he said, and paused, while she 
sat mute 
In the soft shadow of the apple-tree ; 
The skylark's song rang like a joyous 
flute, 
The brook went prattling past her 
restlessly : 
She let their tongues be her tongue's 
substitute ; 
It was tlie wind that sighed, it was 
not she : 
And what the lark, the brook, the wind, . 

had said, 
We cannot tell, for none interpreted. 



A DEAD YEAR. 



37 



Their counsels might be hard to rec- 
oncile, 
They might not suit the moment or 

the spot. 
She rose, and laid her work aside the 

while 
Down in the sunshine of that grassy 

plot ; 
She looked upon hirri with an almost 

smile. 
And held to him a hand that faltered 

not. 
One moment — bird and brook went 

warbling on, 
And the wind sighed again — and he 

was gone. 

So quietly, as if she heard no more 
Or skylark in the azure overhead, 
Or water slipping past the cressy shore, 
Or -ftdnd that rose in sighs, and sigh- 
ing fled — 
So quietly, until the alders hoar 
Took him beneath them ; till the 
downward spread 
Of planes engulfed him in their leafy 

seas 
She stood beneath her rose-flushed 
apple-trees. 

And then she stooped toward the mossy 

grass, 
And gathered up her work and went 

her way ; 
Straight to that ancient turret she did 

pass. 
And startle back some fawns that 

were at play. 
She did not sigh, she never said 

"Alas!" 
Although he was her friend: but 

still that day. 
Where elm and hornbeam spread a 

towering dome. 
She crossed the dells to her ancestral 

home. 



And did she love him? — what if she 

did not? 
Then home was still the home of 

happiest years ; 
Nor thought was exiled to partake liis 

lot, 



Nor heart lost courage through fore- 
bodnig fears ; 
Nor echo did against her secret plot, 

Nor music her betray to painful tears ; 
Nor life become a dream, and sunshine 

dim, 
And riches poverty, because of him. 

But did she love him? — what and if 
she did? 
Love cannot cool the burning Austral 
sand. 
Nor show the secret waters that lie hid 

In arid valleys of that desert land. 
Love has no spells can scorching winds 
forbid, 
Or bring the help which tarries near 
to hand, 
Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded 

eyes 
That ga'ze up dying into alien skies. 



A DEAD YEAR. 

I TOOK a year out of my life and 
story — 

A dead year, and said, "I will hew 
thee a tomb! 
'All the kings of the nations lie in 
gloiy ; ' 

Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred 
gloom ; 

Swathed in linen, and precious un- 
guents old ; 

Painted with cinnabar, and rich with 
gold. 

" Silent they rest, in solemn salvatory, 
Sealed from the moth and the owl and 
the flitteiTnause — 
Each with his name on his brow._ 
'AH the kings of the nations lie in 

glory) 
Every one in his own house : ' 
Then why not thou ? 

"Year," I said, "thou shalt not lack 
Bribes to bar thy coming back ; 
Doth old Eg>'pt wear her best 
In the chambers of her rest? 



38 



A DEAD YEAR. 



Doth she take to her last bed 
Beaten gold, and glorious red? 
Envy not ! for thou wilt wear 
In the dark a shroud as i'air ; 
Golden with the sunny ray 
Thou withdrawest from my day ; 
Wrought upon with colors fine 
Stolen from this life of mine : 
Like the dusty Libyan kings, 
Lie with two wide-open wings 
On thy breast, as if to say, 
On these wings hope fiew away; 
And so housed, and thus adorned, 
Not forgotten, but not scorned, 
Lot the dark for evermore 
Close thee when I close the door ; 
And the dust for ages fall 
In the creases of thy pall ; 
And no voice nor visit rude 
Break thy sealed solitude." 

I took the year out of my life and 
story, 
The dead year, .and said, " I have 
hewed thee a tomb ! 
'All the kings of the nations lie in 
glory,' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred 

gloom ; 
But for the sword, and the sceptre, and 
diadem, 
Sure thou didst reign like them." 
So I laid her with those tyrants old and 
hoaiy. 

According to my vow ; 
For I said, " The kings of the nations 
lie in glory. 

And so shalt thou ! " 

"Rock," I said, "thy ribs are strong, 

That I bring thee guard it long ; 

Hide the light from buried eyes — 

Hide it, lest the dead arise-" 

" Year," I said, and turned away, 

" I am free of thee this day ; 

All that we two only know, 

I forgive and I forego. 

So thy face no more I meet 

In the field or in the street." 

Thus we parted, she and I ; 
Life hid death, and put it by ; 
Life hid death, and said, " Be free! 
I have no more need of thee." 



No more need ! O mad mistake, 
With repentance in its wake ! 
Ignorant, and rash, and blind, 
Life had left the grave behind ; 
But had locked within its hold. 
With the spices and the gold. 
All she had to keep her warm 
In the raging of the storm. 

Scarce the sunset bloom was gone, 
And the little stars outshone, 
Ere the dead year, stiff and stark. 
Drew me to her in the dark ; 
Death drew life to come to her, 
Beating at her sepulchre, 
Crying out, " How can 1 part 
With the best share of my heart? 
Lo, it lies upon tiie bier. 
Captive, with the buried year. 

my heart! " And I fell prone, 
Weeping at the sealed stone ; 

" Year among the shades," I said, 
" Since I live, and thou art dead, 
Let my captive heart be free 
Like a bird to fly to me." 
And I stayed some voice to win. 
But none answered from within ; 
And I kissed the door — and night 
Deepened till the stars waxed brightl 
And I saw them set and wane. 
And the world turned green again. 

" So," I whispered, "open door, 

1 must tread this palace floor — 
Sealed palace, rich and dim. 
Let a narrow sunbeam swim 
After me, and on me spread 
While I look upon my dead ; 
Let a little warmth be free 

To come after ; let me see 
Through the doorway, when I sit 
Looking out, the swallows flit, 
Settling not till daylight goes ; 
Let me smell the wild white rose, 
Smell the woodbine and the may ; 
Mark, upon a sunny day, 
Sated from their blossoms rise 
Honey-bees and butterflies. 
Let me hear, O ! let me hear. 
Sitting by my buried year, 
Finches chirping to their young, 
And the little noises flung 
Out of clefts where rabbits playy 
Or from falling water-spray ; 



REFLECTIONS. 



And the gracious echoes woke 
By man's work : the woodman's stroke, 
Shout of shepherd, whistlings bhthe, 
And the whetting of the scythe ; 
Let this be, lest, shut and furled 
From the well-beloved world, 
I forget her yearnings old. 
And her troubles manifold, 
Strivings sore, submissions meet, 
And my pulse no longer beat. 
Keeping time and bearing part 
With the pulse of her great heart. 

" So! swing open, door, and shade 
Take me : I am not afraid, 
For the time will not be long ; 
Soon I shall have waxen strong — 
Strong enough my own to win 
From the grave it lies within." 

And I entered. On her bier 
Quiet lay the buried year ; 
1 sat down where I could see 
Life without and sunshine free, 
Death within. And I between, 
Waited my own heart to wean 
From the shroud that shaded her 
In the rock-hewn sepulchre — 
Waited till the dead should say, 
" Heart, be free of me this day" — 
Waited with a patient will — 

And I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL. 

I take the year back to my Hfe and 
story. 
The dead year, and say, " I will 'share 
in thy tomb. 
'AH the kings of the nations lie in 
■ glory ; ' _ 

Cased in cedar, and shut m a sacred 

gloom! 
They reigned in their hfetime with 
sceptre and diadem. 
But thou excellest them ; 
For hfe doth make thy grave, her ora- 
tory, 
And the cro'w'n is still on thy brow ; _ 
'AH the kings of the nations lie in 
glory,' 
And so dost thou." 



REFLECTIONS 

Written for the Portfolio Society, 
July, 1862. 

LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A POOL IN 
A FIELD. 

What change has made the pastures 

sweet 
And reached the daisies at my feet, 

And cloud that wears a golden hem? 
This lovely world, the hills, the 

sward — 
They all look fresh, as if our Lord 
But yesterday had finished them. 

And here's the field with light aglow ; 
How fresh its boundary lime-trees 
show. 
And how its wet leaves trembling 
shine ! 
Between their trunks come through to 

me 
The morning sparkles of the sea 
Below the level browsing line. 

I see the pool more clear by half 
Than pools where other waters laugh 

Up at the breasts of coot and rail. 
There, as she passed it on her way, 
I saw reflected yesterday 

A maiden with a milking-pail. 

There, neither slowly nor in haste, 
One hand upon her slender waist, 

The other lifted to her pail. 
She, rosy in the morning light. 
Among the water-daisies white, 

Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. 

Against her ankles as she trod 
The lucky buttercups did nod. 

I leaned upon the gate to see : 
The sweet thing looked, but did not 

speak ; 
A dimple came in either cheek. 

And all my heart was gone from me. 

Then, as I lingered on the gate, 
And she^same up like coming fate, 
. 1 saw my picture in her eyes — 



40 



THE LETTER L. 



Clear dancing eyes, more black than 

sloes, 
Cheeks like the mountain pink, that 

grows 
Among white-headed majesties. 

I said, " A tale was made of old 
That I would fain to thee unfold ; 

Ah ! let me — let me tell the tale." 
But high she held her comely head; 
" I cannot heed it now," she said, 

" For carrying of the milking-pail." 

She laughed. What good to make 

ado? 
I held the gate, and she came through, 
* And took her homeward path anon. 
From the clear pool her face had fled ; 
It rested on my heart instead, 
Reflected when the maid was gone. 

With happy youth, and work content, 
So sweet and stately on she went. 

Right careless of the untold tale. 
Each step she took I loved her more. 
And followed to her dairy door 

The maiden with the milking-pail. 



For hearts where wakened love doth 

lurk. 
How fine, how blest a thing is work ! 
For work does good when reasons 
fail — 
Good ; yet the axe at every stroke 
The echo of a name awoke — 
Her name is Mary Martindale. 

I'm glad that echo was not heard 
Aright by other men : a bird 

Knows doubtless what his own notes 
tell ; 
And I know not ; but I can say 
I felt as shame-faced all that day 
As if folks heard her name right 
well. 

And when the west began to glow 
I went — I could not choose but go — 

To that same dairy on the hill ; 
And while sweet Mary moved about 
Within, I came to her without. 

And leaned upon the window-sill. 



The garden border where I stood 
Was sweet with pinks and southern* 
wood. 
I spoke — her answer seemed to 
fail; 
I smelt the pinks — I could not see ; 
The dusk came down and sheltered 
rne, 
And in the dusk she heard my tale. 

And what is left that I should tell ? 
I begged a kiss, I pleaded well : 

The rosebud lips did long decline ; 
But yet I think, I think 't is true. 
That, leaned at last into the dew. 

One little instant they were mine. 

O life ! how dear thou hast become : 
She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb, 

But evening counsels best prevail. 
Fair shine the blue that o'er hei^ 

spreads. 
Green be the pastures where she treads 

The maiden with the milking-pail ! 



THE LETTER L. 



We sat on grassy slopes that meet 1 

With sudden dip the level strand ; "' 
The trees hung overhead — our feet 
Were on the sand. 

Two silent girls, a thoughtful man, 

We sunned ourselves in open light, 
And felt such April airs as fan , 

The Isle of Wight ; | 

And smelt the wall-flower in the crag * 

Whereon that dainty waft had fed, _ 
Which made the bell-hung cowslip 
wag 
Her delicate head ; 

And let alighting jackdaws fleet 

Adown it open-winged, and pass 
Till they could touch with outstretched 
feet 
The warmed grass. 



THE LETTER L. 



41 



The happy wave ran up and rang 

Like service bells a long way off, 
And down a little freshet sprang 
Prom mossy trough, 

And splashed into a rain of spray. 

And fretted on with daylight's loss, 
Because so many blue-beils lay 
Leaning across. 

Blue martins' gossiped in the sun, 
And pairs of chattering daws flew 

And sailing brigs rocked softly on 
In company. 

Wild cheny boughs above us spread 

The whitest shade was ever seen, 
And flicker, flicker, came and fled 
Sun-spots between. 

Bees murmured in the milk-white 
bloom 
As babes will sigh for deep content 
When their sweet hearts for peace 
make room, 
As given, not lent. 

And we saw on : we said no word. 

And one was lost in musings rare, 
One buoyant as the Waft that stirred 
Her shining hair. 

His eyes were bent upon the sand, 

Unfathomed deeps within them lay ; 
A slender rod was in his hand — 
A hazel spray. 

Her eyes were resting on his face. 
As shyly glad by stealth to glean 
Impressions of his manly grace 
And guarded mien ; 

The mouth with steady sweetness set, 

And eyes conveying unaware 
The distant hint of some regret 
That harbored there. 

She gazed, and in the tender flush 

That made her face like roses blowTi, 
And in the radiance and the hush, 
Her thought was shown. 



It was a happy thing to sit 

So near, nor mar his reverie ; 
She looked not for a part in it, 
So meek was she. 

But it was solace for her eyes. 
And for her heart, that yearned to 
him. 
To watch apart in loving wise 
Those musings dim. 

Lost— lost, and gone! The Pelhara 
woods 
Were full of doves that cooed at 
ease ; 
The orchis filled her purple hoods 
For dainty bees. 

He heard not ; all the delicate air 

Was fresh with falling water-spray ! 
It mattered not — he was not there, 
But far away. 

Till with the hazel in his hand, 

Still drowned in thought, it thus 
befell ; 
He drew a letter on the sand — 
The letter L. 

And looking on it, straight thert 
wrought 
A ruddy flush about his brow ; 
His letter woke him : absent thought 
Rushed homeward now. 

And, half-abashed, his hasty touch 

Effaced it with a tell-tale care, 
As if his action had been much. 
And not his air. 

And she? she watched his open palm 

Smooth out the letter from the sand, 
And rose, with aspect almost calm, 
AikI filled her hand 

With cherry bloom, and moved away 

To gather wild forget-me-not. 
And let her errant footsteps stray 
To one sweet spot, . 

As if she coveted the fair 

White lining of the silver weed. 
And cuckoo-pint that shaded there 
Empurpled seed. 



THE LETTER L. 



She had not feared, as I divine, 

Because she had not hoped. Alas I 
The sorrow of it ! for that sign 
Came but to pass ; 

And yet it robbed her of the right 

To give, who looked not to receive, 
And made her blush in love's despite 
That she should grieve. 

A shape in white, she turned to gaze ; 
Her ityfts were shaded with her hand, 
And half-way up the winding ways 
We saw her stand. 

Green hollows of the fringed clif?. 

Red rocks that under waters show. 
Blue reaches, and a- sailing skiff, 
Were spread below. 

She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh. 

Perhaps to think ; but who can tell 
How heavy on lier heart must lie 
The letter L ! 



She came anon with quiet grace ; 
And "What," she murmured, "si- 
lent yet! " 
He answered, " 'T is a haunted place, 
And spell-beset. 

" O speak to us, and break the spell ! " 
"The spell is broken," she replied. 
" I crossed the running brook, it fell, 
It could not bide. 

" And I have brought a budding world 

Of orchis spires and daisies rank, 
And ferny plumes but half uncurled, 
From yonder bank ; 

"And I shall weave of them a crown. 
And at the well-head launch it free. 
That so the brook may float it down, 
And out to sea. 

" There may it to some English hands 

From fairy meadow seem to come ; 
The fairyest of fairy lands — 
The land of home." 



"Weave on," he said, and as she wove 

We told how currents in the deep, 
With branches from a lemon grove, 
Blue bergs will sweep. 

And messages from shipwrecked folk 

Will navigate the moon-led main. 
And painted boards of splintered oak 
Their port regain. 

Then floated out by vagrant thought, 

My soul beheld on torrid sand 
The wasteful water set at nought 
Man's skilful hand. 

And suck out gold-dust from the box, 
And wash it down in weedy whirls, 
And split the wine-keg on the rocks, 
And lose the pearls. 

" Ah ! why to that which needs it not," 
Methought, "should costly things be 
given ? 
How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot, 
On this side heaven! " 

So musing, did mine ears awake 

To maiden tones of sweet reserve. 
And manly speech that seemed to make 
The steady curve 

Of lips that uttered it defer 
Their guard, and soften for the 
_ thought : 
She listened, and his talk with her 
Was fancy fraught. 

"There is not much in liberty" — 
With doubtful pauses he began ; 
And said to jier and said to me, 
" There was a man — 

" There was a man who dreamed one 

night 
That his dead father came to him. 
And said, when fire was low, and light 
Was burning dim — 

"'Why vagrant thus, my sometime 
pride, 
Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam ? 
Sure home is best ! ' The son replied, 
* I have no home.' 



THE LETTER L. 



43 



'''Shall not I speak?' his father said, 

' Who early chose a youthful wife, 
And worked for her, and with her led 
My happy life. 

" ' Ay, I will speak, for I was young 
As' thou art now, when I did hold 
The prattling sweetness of thy tongue 
Dearer than gold ; 

" ' And rosy from thy noonday sleep 
Would bear thee to admiring kin. 
And all thy pretty looks would keep 
My heart within. 

" 'Then after, 'mid thy yoimg allies — 
For thee ambition flushed my brow — 
I coveted the schoolboy prize 
Far more than thou. 

" ' I thought for thee, I thought for all 
My gamesome imps that round me 
grew ; 
The dews of blessing heaviest fall 
Where care falls too. 

" ' And I that sent my boys away. 
In youthful strength to earn their 
bread, 
And died before the hair was grey 
Upon my head — 

" ' I say to thee, though free from care, 

A lonely lot, an aimless life, 
The crowning comfort is not there — 
Son, take a wife.' 

" ' Father beloved,' the son replied, 
And failed to gather to his breast, 
With arms in darkness searching wide, 
The formless guest. 

" ' I am but free, as sorrow is, 

To dry her tears, to laugh, tn talk ; 
And free, as sick men are, I wis, 
To rise and walk. 

" ' And free, as poor men are, to buy 
If they have nought wherewith to 
pay; 
Nor hope the debt, before they die, 
To wipe away. 



" ' What 'vails it there are wives to win, 
And faithful hearts for those to yearn, 
Who find not aught thereto akin 
To make return ? 

" ' Shall he take much who little gives, 

And dwells in spirit far away. 
When she that in his presence lives, 
Doth never stray, 

" ' But, waking, guideth as beseems 

The happy house in order trim, 
And tends her babes ; and, sleeping, 
dreams 
Of them and him? 

" ' O base, O cold,' " — while thus he 
spake 
The dream broke off, the vision fled ; 
He carried on his speech awake. 
And sighing said — 

*" I had — ah, happy man ! — I had 

A precious jewel in my breast, 
jtnd while I kept it I was glad 
At work, at rest ! 

" ' Call it a heart, and call it strong 

As upward stroke of eagle's wing ; 
Then call it weak, you shall not wrong 
The beating thing. 

" ' In tangles of the jungle reed. 

Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes, 
In shipwreck drifting with the weed 
'Neath rainy skies, 

" ' Still youthful manhood, fresh and 
keen, 
At danger gazed with awed delight, 
As if sea would not drown, I ween, 
Nor serpent bite. 

" *I had — ah, happy! but 'tis gone. 
The priceless jewel ; one came by. 
And saw and stood awhile to con 
With curious ej^e, 

" ' And wished for it, and faintly smiled 

From under lashes black as doom. 
With subtle sweetness, tender, mild, 
That did illume 



44 



THE LETTER L. 



*' ' The perfect face, and shed on it 

A charm, half feeling, half surprise, 
And brim with dreams Uie exquisite 
Brown blessed eyes. 

" • Was it for this, no more but this, 

I took and laid it in her hand. 
By dimples ruled, to hint submiss, 
By frown unmanned ? 

" ' It was for this — and O farewell 

The fearless foot, the present mind, 
And steady will to breast the swell 
And face the wind ! 

" ' I gave the jewel from my breast, 

She played with it a little while 
As I sailed down into the west, 
Fed by her smile ; 

" ' Then weary of it — far from land, 

With sigh as deep as destiny, 
She let it drop from her fair hand 
Into the sea, 

" ' And watched it sink ; and I — and 

What shall I do, for all is vain ? 
No wave will bring, no gold will buy, 
No toil attain ; 

" ' Nor any diver reach to raise 

My jewel from the blue abyss ; 
Of could they, still I should but praise 
Their work amiss. 

" ' Thrown, thrown away ! But I love 
yet 
The fair, fair hand which did the 
deed: 
That wayward sweetness to forget 
Were bitter meed. 

*' ' No, let it lie, and let the wave 

Roll over it for evermore ; 
Whelmed where the sailor hath his 
grave — 
The sea her store. 

" ' My heart, my sometime happy 
heart! 
And O for once let me complain, 
[ must forego life's better part — 
Man's dearer gain. 



" ' I worked afar that I might rear 

A peaceful home on English soil ; 
I labored for the gold and gear — 
I loved my toil. 

" ' For ever in my spirit spake 

The natural whisper, " Well 'twill be 
When loving wife and children break 
Their bread with thee ! ' ' 

" * The gathered gold is turned to dross, 

The wife hath faded into air. 
My heart is thrown away, my loss 
I cannot spare. 

" ' Not spare unsated thought her 
food — 
No, not one rustle of the fold. 
Nor scent of eastern sandalwood, 
Nor gleam of gold ; 

" ' Nor quaint devices of the shawl. 

Far less the drooping lashes meek; 
The gracious figure, lithe and tall, 
The dimpled cheek ; 

" ' And all the wonders of her eyes, 

And sweet caprices of her air, 
Albeit, indignant reason cries, 
Fool ! have a care. 

" ' Fool ! join not madness to mistake ; 
Thou knowest she loved thee not a 
whit ; 
Only that she thy heart might break — 
She wanted it, 

" ' Only the conquered thing to chain 
So fast that none might set it free, 
Nor other woman there might reign 
And comfort thee. 

" ' Robbed, robbed of life's illusions 
sweet ; 
Love dead outside her closed door. 
And passion fainting at her feet 
To wake no more ; 

" ' What canst thou give that unknown 
bride 
Whom thou didst work for in the 
waste. 
Ere fated love was born, and cried — 
Was dead, ungraced? 



THE LETTER L. 



45 



" ' No more but this, the partial care, 

The natural kindness for its own, 
The trust that waxeth unaware. 
As worth is known : 

" ' Observance, and complacent thought 

Indulgent, and the honor due 
That many another man has brought 
Who brought love too. 

*' ' Nay, then, forbid it, Heaven ! ' he 
said, 
'The saintly vision fades from me ; 

bands and chains ! 1 cannot wed — 

I am not free.' " 

With that he raised his face to view; 
" What think you," asking, " of my 
tale? 
And was he right to let the dew 
Of morn exhale, 

" And burdened in the noontide sun, 
The grateful shade of home forego — 

Could he be right — I ask as one 
Who fain would know?" 

He spoke to her and spoke to me ; 

The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek ; 
The woven crown lay on her knee ; 
She would not speak. 

And I with doubtful pause — averse 
To let occasion drift away — 

1 answered — " If his case were worse 

Than word can say, 

" Time is a healer of sick hearts, 
And women have been known to 
choose. 
With purpose to allay their smarts, 
And tend their bruise, 

"These for themselves. Content to 
give, 
In their owti lavish love complete, 
Taking for sole prerogative 
Their tendance sweet. 

" Such meeting in their diadem 

Of crowning love's etliereal fire, 
Himself he robs who robbeth them 
Of their desire. 



"Therefore the man who, dreaming, 
cried 
Against his lot that evensong, 
I judge him honest, and decide 
That he was wrong." 

•' When I am judged, ah, may my fate," 
He whispered, " in thy code be read ! 
Be thou both judge and advocate." 
Then turned, he said — 

"Fair weaver!" touching, while he 
spoke, 
The woven crown, the weaving hand, 
"And do you this decree revoke, 
Or may it stand ? 



" This friend, you ever 
right — 
She is not wrong, then?' 
low 

The little trembling word took flight : 
She answered, " No." 



think her 
Soft and 



A meadow where the grass was deep, 

Rich, square, and golden to the view, 
A belt of elms with level sweep 
About it grew. 

The sun beat down on it, the line 

Of shade was clear beneath the trees ; 
There, by a clustering eglantine. 
We sat at ease. 

And O the buttercups ! that field 
O' the cloth of gold, where pennons 
swam — 
Where France set up his lilied shield. 
His oriflamb, 

And Henry's lion-standard rolled: 

What was it to their matchless sheen. 
Their million million drops of gold 
Among the green ! 

We sat at ease in peaceful trust. 

For he had written, " Let us meet ; 
My wife grew tired of smoke and dust. 
And London heat, 



46 



THE LETTER L. 



"And I have found a quiet grange, 

Set back in meadows sloping west, 
And there our little ones can range 
And she can rest. 

"Come down, that we may show the 
view, 
And she may hear your voice again, 
And talk her woman' s talk with you 
Along the lane." 

Since he had drawn with listless hand 

The letter, six long years liad fled, 
And winds had blown about the sand, 
And they were wed. 

Two rosy urchins near him played. 
Or watched, entranced, the shapely 
ships 
That with his knife for them he made 
Of elder slips. 

And where the flowers were thickest 
shed. 
Each blossom like a burnished gem, 
A creeping baby reared its head, 
And cooed at them. 

And calm was on the father's face, 

And love was in the mother's eyes ; 
She looked and listened from her place, 
In tender wise. 

She did not need to raise her voice 

That they might hear, she sat so nigh ; 
Yet we could speak when 'twas our 
choice. 
And soft reply. 

Holding our quiet talk apart 

Of household things ; till, all unsealed, 
The guarded outworks of the heart 
Begaii to yield ; 

And much that prudence will not dip 

The pen to fix and send away. 
Passed safely over from the lip 
That summer day. 

" I should be happy," with a look 

Towards her husband where he lay, 
Lost in the pages of his book. 
Soft did she say ; 



" I am, and yet no lot below 

For one w-hole day eludeth care; 
To marriage all the stories flow, 
And finish there : 

" As if with marriage came the end. 

The entrance into settled rest. 
The calm to which love's tossings tend, 
The quiet breast. 

" For me love played the low preludes, 

Yet life began but with the ring. 
Such infinite solicitudes 
Around it cling. 

" I did not for my heart divine 

Her destiny so meek to grow ; 
The higher nature matched with mine 
Will have it so. 

" Still I consider it, and still 

Acknowledge it my master made, 
Above me by tlie steadier will 
Of nought afraid. 

" Above me by the candid speech ; 

The temperate judgment of its own ; 
The keener thoughts that grasp and 
reach 
At things unknown. 

" But I look up and he looks down. 

And thus our married eyes can meet ; 
Unclouded his, and clear of frown. 
And gravely sweet. 

" And yet, O good, O wise and true! 

I would fof all my fealtj^, 
That I could be as much to you 
As you to me ; 

"And knew the deep secure content 

Of wives who have been hardly won- 
And, long petitioned, gave assent, 
Jealous of none. 

" But proudly sure in all the earth 
No other in that homage shares, 
Nor other woman's face or worth 
Is prized as theirs." 



THE LETTER L. 



47 



I said : " ^ nd yet no lot helow 

For one -whole day eludeth care. 
Your thought." She answered, " Even 
so. 
I would beware 

" Regretful questionings ; be sure 

That very seldom do they rise, 
Nor for myself do I endure — 
I sympathize. 

"For once" — she turned away her 
head, 
Across the grass she swept her 
hand — 
" There was a letter once," she said, 
" Upon the sand." 

" There was, in truth, a letter writ 
On sand," I said, "and swept from 
•view ; 
But that same hand which fashioned it 
Is given to you. 

" Efface the letter ; wherefore keep 

An image which the sands forego?" 
" Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep," 
She answered low, 

" I could not choose but wake it now ; 

For do but turn aside your face, 
A house on yonder hilly brow 
Yom- eyes may trace. 

" The chestnnt shelters it ; ah me. 
That I should have so faint a heart ! 
But yester eve, as bjr the sea 
I sat apart, 

" I heard a name, I saw a hand 

Of passing stranger point that way — 
And will he meet her on the strand. 
When late we stray ? 

" For she is come, for she is there, 
I heard it in the dusk, and heard 
Admiring words, th.it named her fair^ 
But little stirred 

" By beauty of the wood and wa\'e, 
And weary of an old man's sway ! 
For it was sweeter to enslave 
Than to obey." 



— The voice of one that near us stood, 

The rustle of a silken fuld, 
A scent of eastern sandalwood, 
A gleam of gold ! 

A lady ! In the narrow space 

Between the husband and the wife, 
But nearest him — she showed a face 
With dangers rife ; 

A subtle smile that dimpling fled. 

As night-black lashes rose and fell ; 
I looked, and to myself I said, 
" The letter L." 

He, too, looked up, and with arrest 

Of breath and motion held his gaze, 
Nor cared to hide within his breast 
His deep amaze ; 

Nor spoke till on her near advance 

His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue ; 
And with his change of countenance 
Hers altered too. 

" Lenore ! " his voice was like the cry 

Of one entreating ; and he said 
But that — then paused with such a 
sigh 
As mourns the dead. 

And seated near, with no demur 

Of bashful doubt she silence broke, 
Though I alone could answer her 
When first she spoke. 

She looked: her eyes were beauty's 
own ; 
She shed their sweetness into his ; 
Nor spared the married wife one moan 
That bitterest is. 

She spoke, and, lo, her loveliness 
Methought she damaged with her 
tongue ; 
And every sentence made it less, 
So false they rung. 

The rallying voice, the light demand, 

Half flippant, half unsatisfied ; 
The vanity sincere and bland — ■ 
The answers wide. 



48 



THE LETTER L. 



And now her talk was of the East, 

And next her talk was of the sea ; 
" And has the love for it increased 
You shared with me ?" 

He answered not, but grave and still 
With earnest eyes her face perused, 
And locked his lips with steady will, 
As one that mused — 

That mused and wondered. Why his 
gaze 
Should dwell on her, methought, was 
plain ; 
But reason that should wonder raise 
I sought in vain. 

And near and near the children drew, 

Attracted by her rich array, 
And gems that trembling into view 
Like raindrops lay. 

He spoke : the wife her baby took 

And pressed the little face to hers ; 
What pain soe' er her bosom shook. 
What jealous stirs 

Might stab her heart, she hid them so, 

The cooing babe a veil supplied ; 
And if she Hstened none might know, 
Or if she sighed ; 

Or if, forecasting grief and care, 

Unconscious solace thence she drew, 
And lulled her babe, and unaware 
Lulled sorrow too. 

The lady, she interpreter 

For looks or language wanted none, 
If yet dommion stayed with her — 
So lightly won : 

If yet the heart she wounded sore 

Could yearn to her, and let her see 
The homage that was evermore 
Disloyalty ; 

If sign would yield that it had bled, 
Or rallied from the faithless blow, 
Or sick or sullen stooped to wed, 
She craved to know. 



Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, 
Her asking eyes would round him 
shine ; 
But guarded lips and settled mien 
Refused the sign. 

And unbeguiled and unbetrayed, 

The wonder yet within his breast,,^ 
It seemed a watchful part he played 
Against her quest. 

Until with accent of regret 

She touched upon the past once 
more, 
As if she dared him to forget 
His dream of yore. 

And words of little weight let fall 

The fancy of the lower mind ; 
How waxing life must needs leave all 
Its best behind ; 

How he had said that " he would fain 

(One morning on the halcyon sea) 
That life would at a stand remain 
Eternally ; 

" And sails be mirrored in the deep. 

As then they were, for evermore. 
And happy spirits wake and sleep 
Afar from shore : . 

"The well-contented heart be fed 
Ever as then, and all the world 
(It were not small) unshadowed 
When sails were furled. 

"Your words" — a pause, and quietly 

With touch of calm self-ridicule : 
" It may be so — for then," said he, 
"I was a fool." 

With that he took his book, and left 

An awkward silence to my care. 
That soon I filled with questions deft 
And debonair ; 

And slid into an easy vein, 

The favorite picture of the year ; 
The grouse upon her lord's domain - 
The salmon weir ; 



THE HIGH TIDE. 



49 



Till she coi;ld feign a sudden thought 

Upon neglected guests, and rise 
And make us her adieux, with nought 
In her dark eyes 

Acknowledging or shame or pain ; 

But just unveiling for our view 
A little smile of still disdain 
As she withdrew. 

Then nearer did the sunshine creep, 
And warmer came the wafting 
breeze ; 
The little babe was fast asleep 
On mother's knees. 

Fair was the face that o'er it leant, 
The cheeks with beauteous blushes 
dyed ; 
The downcast lashes, shyly bent, 
That failed to hide 

Some tender shame. She did not see ; 
She felt his eyes that would not stir ; 
She looked upon her babe, and he 
So looked at her. 

So grave, so wondering, so content. 

As one new waked to conscious life, 
Whose sudden joy with fear is blent, 
He said, " My wife." 

" My wife, how beautiful you are ! " 
Then closer at her side reclined ; 
" The bold brown woman from afar 
Comes, to me blind. 

"And by comparison I see 

■ Tlie majesty of matron grace, 
And learn how pure, how fair can be 
My own wife's face : 

" Pure with all faithful passion, fair 
With tender smiles that come and 
go ; _ 
And comforting as April air 
After the snow. 

" Fool that I was ! my spirit frets 

And marvels at the huiiibling truth, 
That I have deigned to spend regrets 
On my bruised youth. 



" Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh. 
And shamed me for the mad mis- 
take ; 
I thank my God He could deny, 
And she forsake. 

"Ah, who am I, that God hath saved 

Me from the doom I did desire, 
And crossed the lot myself had craved, 
To set me higher? 

" What have I done that He should 
bow 
From heaven to choose a wife for 
me ? 
And what deserved, he should endow 
My home with thee? 

"My wife!" With that she turned 
her face 
To kiss the hand about her neck ; 
And I went down and sought the place 
Where leaped the beck — 

The busy beck, that still would run 

And fall, and falter its refrain ; 
And pause and shimmer in the sun, 
And fall again. 

It led me to the sandy shore. 

We sang together, it and I — _ 
"The daylight comes, the dark is o'er, 
The shadows fly." 

I lost it on the sandy shore, 

" O wife ! " its latest murmurs fell, 
" O wife, be glad, and fear no more 
The letter L." 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE 
COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

The old mayor climbed the belfry 
tower, 
Tlie ringers ran by two, by three ; 
" Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 
Good ringers, iJuU your best," quoth 
he. 



THE HIGH TIDE. 



'Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston 
bells! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells, 
Play uppe ' The Brides of Ender- 
by.' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; 
But in myne ears doth still abide 

The message that the bells let fall : 
And there was nought of strange, be- 
side 
The flight of mews and peewits pied 
By millions crouched on the old sea 
wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I raised myne 
eyes ; 
The level sun, like ruddy ore. 

Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
And dark against day's golden death 
She moved where Lindis wandereth, 
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha ! "calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song, 
" Cusha 1 Cusha ! " all along ; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth. 
From the meads where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking song — 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha! " calling, 
" For the dews will soone be falling ; 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, 

Lightfoot ; 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 

Hollow, hollow; 
Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, 

Lightfoot, 
Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 
Jett}', to the milking shed." 

If it be long, ay, long ago, 

When I beginne to think howe long, 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; 



And all the aire, it seemeth mee, I 

Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), ' 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be scene, 

Save where full fyve good miles away 
The steeple towered from out the 
greene ; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 
The shepherde lads I heard afarre. 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
Came downe that kyndly message free> 
The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, " And why should this 
thing be ? 

What danger lowers by land or sea? 

They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 
They have not spared to wake the 
towne : 
But while the west bin red to see. 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ' ? " 

I looked without, and lo! my sonne 
Came riding downe with might and 
main : 

He raised a shout as he drew on. 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

" Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! " 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, EHzabeth.) 

*' The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe 
The rising tide comes on a;jace, 

And boats adrift in yonder towne 
Go sailing uppe the market-place-' 



THE HIGH TIDE. 



He shook as one that looks on death : 
" God save you, mother ! " straight he 

sailh ; 
" Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" 

"Good Sonne, where Lindis winds her 
way, [long ; 

With her two bairns I marked her 
And ere yon bells beganne to play 

Afar I heard her milking song." 
He looked across the grassy lea. 
To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby ! " 
They rang "The Brides of Enderby! " 

With that he cried and beat his breast ; 

For, lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest. 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud ; 
Shaped like a curling snovv-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed 
Shook all her trembling baukes 
amaine ; 
Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came downe with ruin and 

rout — 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 

The heart had hardly time to beat 
Before a s-hallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : 
The feet had hardly time to tiee 
Before it brake against the knee. 
And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night, 
The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 

I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red 
and high — 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awsome bells they were to mee. 

That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to- guide 
From roofe to roofe who fearless 
rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 



And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 
" O come in life, or come in death 1 
O lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter 
deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore. 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the 
grass. 

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! 

To manye more than myne and mee : 
But each will mourn his own (she saltli) ; 
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
"Cusha! Cusha! Cushal" calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; [eth, 

From the meads where melick grow- 
When the water winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver ; 
Stand beside the sobbing river. 
Sobbing, throbbing, in i^s falling 
To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, 

Lightfoot ; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and fol- 
low ; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From your clovers lift the head ; 
Come uppe. Jetty, follow, follow. 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSON- 
AGE. 

(the parson's brother, sister, and 
two children.) 

Preface. 

What wonder man should fail to stay 
A nursling wafted from above, 

The growth celestial come astray. 
That tender growth whose name is 
Love! 



It is as ithigh winds in heaven 
Had shaken the celestial trees, 

And to this earth below had given 
Some feathered seeds from one of 
these. 



O perfect love that 'dureth long ! 

Dear growth, that, shaded by the 
palms. 
And breathed on by the angel's song. 

Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms! 

How great the task to guard thee here. 
Where wind is rough, and frost is 
keen, 
And all the ground with doubt and fear 
Is chequered birth and death be- 
tween ! 

Space is against thee — it can part ; 

Time is against thee ^- it can chill ; 
Words — they but render half the 
heart ; 
Deeds — they are poor to our rich 
will. 



Merton. Though she had loved me, I 
had never bound 

Her beauty to my darkness ; that had 
been 

Too hard for her. Sadder to look so 
near 

Into a face all shadow, than to stand 

Aloof, and then withdraw, and after- 
wards 

Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. 



I think so, and I loved her ; therefore I 
Have no complaint ; albeit she is not 

mine : 
And yet — and yet, withdrawing I would 

fain 
She would have pleaded duty — would 

have said 
"My father wills it;" would have 

turned away. 
As lingering, or unwillingly ; for then 
She would have done no damage to 

the past : 
Now she has roughly used it — flung it 

down 
And brushed its bloom away. If she 

had said, 
"Sir, I have promised; therefore, lo! 

my hand" — 
Would I have taken it ? Ah, no ! by all- 
Most sacred, no ! 

I would for my sole share' 
Have taken first her recollected blush 
The day I won her ; next her shining' 

tears — _ ; 

The tears of our long parting ; and for alll 
The rest — her cry, her bitter heart- 
sick cry, 
That day or night (I know not which 

it was. 
The days being always night), that 

darkest night. 
When being led to her I heard her ciy, 
"O blind! blind! blind!" 

Go with thy chosen mate : 
The fashion of thy going nearly cured 
The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak 
Thst half my thoughts go after thee ; 

but not 
So weak that I desire to have it so. 

Jessie, seated at the piano, sings. 

When the dimpled water slippeth, 

Full of laughter, on its way. 
And her wing the wagtail dippeth, 

Running by the brink at play ; 
When the poplar leaves atremble 

Turn their edges to the light, | 

And the far-up clouds resemble _ ' 

Veils of gauze most clear and white ; 
And the sunbeams fall and flatter 

Woodland moss and branches brown, 
And the glossy finches chatter 

Up and down, up and down : 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 



53 



Though the heart be not attending, 

Having music of her own, 
On the grass, through meadows wend- 

It is sweet to walk alone. 

When the falling waters utter 

Something mournful on their way, 
And departing swallows flutter, 

Taking leave of bank and brae ; 
When the chaffinch idly sitteth 

With her mate upon the sheaves, 
And the wistful robin flitteth 

Over beds of yellow .leaves ; 
When the clouds, like ghosts that pon- 
der 

Evil fate, float by and frown. 
And the listless wind doth wander 

Up and down, up and down : 
Though the heart be not attending, 

Having sorrows of her own. 
Through the fields and fallows wend- 
ing, 

It is sad to walk alone. 



Merton. Blind! blind! blind! 
Oh ! sitting in the dark for evermore. 
And doing nothing — putting out a hand 
To feel what lies about me, and to say 
Not "This is blue or red," but "This 

is cold, 
And this the sun is shining on, and this 
I know not till they tell its name to me." 

O that I might behold once more, my 

God ! 
The shining rulers of the night and day ; 
Or a star twinkling ; or an almond-tree. 
Pink with her blossom and alive with 

bees. 
Standing against the azure ! O my 

sight! 
Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells 
Of memory — that only hghtsome place 
Where lingers yet the dayspring of my 

youth : 
The years of mourning for thy death 

are long. 

Be kind, sweet memory ! O desert me 

not! 
For oft thou show'st me lucent opal 

seas, 



Fringed with their cocoa-palms, and 

dwarf red crags. 
Whereon the placid moon doth " rest 

her chin ; " 
For oft by favor of thy visitings 
I feel the dimness of an Indian night, 
And lo ! the sun is coming. Red as 

rust 
Between the latticed blind his pres- 
ence burns, 
A ruby ladder running up the wall ; 
And all the dust, printed with pigeons' 

feet. 
Is reddened, and the crows that stalk 

anear 
Begin to trail for heat their glossy 

wings, 
And the red flowers give back at once 

the dew. 
For night is gone, and day is born so 

fast. 
And is so strong, that, huddled as in 

flight. 
The fleeting darkness paleth to a 

shade, 
And Vv'hile she calls to sleep and dreams 

" Come on," 
Suddenly waked, the sleepers rub 

their eyes. 
Which having opened, lo! she is no 

more. 



O misery and mourning ! I have felt — 
Yes, I have felt like some deserted 

world 
That God had done with, and had cast 

aside 
To rock and stagger through the gulfs 

of space, 
He never looking on it any more — 
Untilled, no use, no pleasure, not de- 
sired, 
Nor lighted on by angels in their 

flight 
From heaven to happier planets, and 

the race 
That once had dwelt on it withdrawn 

or dead. 
Could such a world have hope that 

some blest day 
God would remember her, and fashion 

her 
Anew ? 



54 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 



Jessie. What, dearest? Did you 

speak to me ? 
Child. I think he spoke to us. 
M. ' No, little elves. 

You were so quiet that I half forgot 
Your neighborhood. What are you 
doing there ? 
y. They sit together on the window- 
mat 
Nursing their dolls. 

C. Yes, Uncle, our new dolls — 

Our best dolls, that you gave us. 

JM. Did you say 

The afternoon was bright ? 

J. Yes, bright indeed ! 

The sun is on the plane-tre.e, and it 

flames 
All red and orange. 

C. I can see my father — 

Look ! look ! the leaves are falling on 
his gown. 
M. Where? 

C. In the churchyard, Uncle — 

he is gone ; 
He passed behind the tower. 

M. I heard a bell : 

There is a funeral, then, behind the 
church. 
7.d Child. Are the trees sorry when 

their leaves drop off ? 
i^^ Child. You talk such silly words ; 
— no, not at all. 
There goes another leaf. 

2.d Child. I did not see. 

\st Child. Look! on the grass, be- 
tween the little hills, 
Just where they planted Amy. 

J. Amy died — 

Dear little Amy ! when you talk of her. 
Say, she is gone to heaven. 

id Child. They planted her — 

Will she come up next year ? 

ist Child. No, not so soon ; 

But some day God will call her to come 

up, 
And then she will. Papa knows every 

thing — 
He said she would before he planted 
her. 
zd Child. It was at night she went 
to heaven. Last night 
We saw a star before we went to bed. 
\si Child. Yes, Uncle, did you know? 
A large bright star, 



And at her side she had some little 

ones — 
Some young ones. 

M. Young ones ! no, my little maid, 
Those stars are very old. 

ist Child. What! all of them? 

M. Yes. 

\st Child. Older than our father? 
M. Older, far. ] 

id Child. They must be tired of' ' 
shining there so long. 
Perhaps they wish they might come 
down. 
J. Perhaps ! 

Dear children, talk of what you under-^ 

stand. 
Come, I must lift the trailing creepers 

"P . . i 

That last night's wmd has loosened. ; 

ist Child. May we helpj 

Aunt, may we help to nail them ? * 

y. _ We shall see.. 

Go, find and bring the hammer, an4 

some shreds. 



\_Steps outside the window, lifts ai 
branch, and siiigs.\ 

Should I change my allegiance for raii-' 
cor 

If fortune changes her side ? 
Or should I, like a vessel at anchor, 

Turn with the turn of the tide ? 
Lift ! O lift, thou lowering sky ; 

An thou wilt, thy gloom forego! 
An thou wilt not, he and I 

Need not part for drifts of snow. 



M. [wit hi ft]. Lift ! no, thou lower*i 

ing sky, thou wilt not lift — ^ 

Thy motto readeth, " Never." J 

Ch ildren. H er e th ey are i 

Here are the nails ! and may we help^ 

y. You shall," 

If I should want help. 

ist Child. Will you want it, then? 
Please want it — we like nailing. 

id Child. Yes, we do. 

y. It seems I ought to want it ; hold 
the bough. 
And each may nail in turn. 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 



55 



\_Sings. ] 
Like a daisy I was, near him growing : 

Ivlust I move because favors flag, 
And be like a brown wall-flower blow- 
ing 

Far out of reach in a crag ? 
Lift ! O lift, thou lowering sky ; 

An thou canst, thy blue regain ! 
An thou canst not, he and I 

Need not part for drops of rain. 

\st Child. Now, have we nailed 

enough ? 
y. {trains the creepers\. Yes, you 
may go ; 
But do not play too near the church- 
yard path. 
M. [witki/i]. Even misfortune does 
not strike so near 
As my dependence. O, in youth and 

strength 
To sit a timid coward in the dark. 
And feel before I set a cautious step ! 
It is so very dark, so far more dark 
Than any night that day comes after — 

night 
In which there would be stars, or else 

at least 

The silvered portion of a sombre cloud 

Through which the moon is plunging. 

y. [entering], Merton ! 

M. Yes. 

y. Dear Merton, did you know that 

I could hear? 
M. No : e'en my solitude is not 
mine now, 
And if I be alone is ofttimes doubt. 
Alas ! far more than eyesight have I 

lost; 
For manly courage drifteth after it — 
E'en as a splintered spar would drift 

away 
From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I 

C::>mplain — 
Like a weak ailing woman I complain. 
y. For the first time. 
M. I cannot bear the dark. 

y. My brother! you do bear it — 
bear it well — 
Have borne it twelve long months, and 

not complained. 
Comfort your heart with music : all the 
air 



Is warm with sunbeams where the organ 
stands. 

You like to feel them on you. Come 
and play. 
M. My fate, my fate, is lonely ! 
y. So it is — 

I know it is. 
M. And pity breaks my heart. 

y. Does it, dear Merton? 
M. Yes, I say it does. 

What ! do you think I am so dull of ear 

That I can mark no changes in the tones 

That reach me? Once I liked not girl- 
ish pride 

And that coy quiet, chary of reply, 

That held me distant: now the sweet- 
est lips 

Open to entertain me — fairest hands 

Are proffered me to guide. 

y. That is not well? 

M. No : give me coldness, pride, or 
still disdain. 

Gentle withdrawal. Give me any thing 

But this — a fearless, sweet, confiding 
ease, 

Whereof I may expect, I may exact. 

Considerate care, and have it — gentle 
speech. 

And have it. Give me any thing but 
this ! 

For they who give it, give it in the faith 

That I will not misdeem them, and for- 
get 

My doom so far as to perceive thereby 

Hope of a wife. They make this 
thought too plain ; 

They wound me — O they cut me to 
the heart! 

When have I said to any one of them, 

"I am a blind and desolate man; — 
come here, 

I pray you — be as eyes to me?" When 
said, 

Even to her whose pitying voice is 
sweet 

To my dark ruined heart, as must be 
hands 

That clasp a lifelong captive's through 
the grate, 

And who will ever lend her delicate aid 

To guide me, dark incumbrance that I 
am ! — 

When have I said to her, "Comfort- 
ing voice, 



56 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 



Belonging to a face unknown, I pray 
Be my wife's voice? " 

y. Never, my brother — no. 

You never have ! 

M What could she think of me 

If I forgot myself so far ? or what 
Could she reply ? 

y. You ask not as men ask 

Who care for an opinion, else, perhaps, 
Although I am not sure — although, 

perhaps, 
I have no right to give one — I should 

say 
She would reply, " I will! " 



Afterthought. 

Man dwells apart, though not alone, 
He walks among his peers unread ; 

The best of thoughts which he hath 
known 
For lack of listeners are not said. 

Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, 
He saith, " They dwell not lone like 
men," 

Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles 
Flash far beyond each other's ken. 

He looks on God's eternal suns 
That sprinkle the celestial blue. 

And saith, " Ah ! happy shining ones, 
I would that men were grouped like 
you!" 

Yet this is sure : the loveliest star 
That clustered with its peers we see, 

Only because from us so far 
Doth near its fellows seem to be. 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 

SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. 

There's no dew left on the daisies and 
clover. 
There's no rain left in heaven : 
I've said my "seven times" over and 
over, 
Seven time's one are seven. 



I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done ; 
The lambs play always, they know no 
better ; 

They are only one times one. 

moon ! in the night I have seen you 

sailing 
And shining so round and low ; 
You were briglit ! ah, bright ! but your 

light is failing, — 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You moon, have you done something 
wrong in heaven 
That God has hidden your face ? 

1 hope if you have you will soon be 

forgiven. 
And shine again in your place. 

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, 
You've powdered your legs with gold! 
O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yel- 
low. 
Give me your money to hold! 

O columbine, open your folded wrap- 
per, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

cuckoopint, toll me the purple clap- 

per 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest with the young 
ones in it ; 
I will not steal them away ; 

1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, 

linnet — 
I am seven times one to-day. 



SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. 

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out 
your changes. 
How many soever they be, 
And let the brown meadow-lark's note 
as he ranges 
Come over,-come over to me. 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 



57 



Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by 
swelling 
No magical sense conveys, 
And bells have forgotten their old art 
of telling 
The fortune of future days. 

"Turn again, turn again," once they 
rang cheerily. 
While a boy listened alone ; 
Made his heart yearn again, musing so 
wearily 
All by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good 
days are over, 
And mine, they are yet to be ; 
No listening, no longing shall aught, 
aught discover : 
You leave the story to me. 

The foxglove shoots out of the green 
matted heather. 
Preparing her hoods of snow ; 
She was idle, and slept till the sun- 
shiny weather : 
O, children take long to grow. 

I wish and I wish that the spring 
woulc^go faster. 
Nor long summer bide so- late ; 
And I could grow on like the foxglove 
and aster, 
For some things are ill to wait. 



I wait for the day when dear hearts' 
shall discover, 
While dear hands are laid on my 
head ; 
"The child is a woman, the book may 
close over. 
For all the lessons are said." 



I wait for my story — the birds cannot 
sing it, 
Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, 
O bring it ! _ 
Such as I wish it to be. 



SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. 

I leaned out of window, I smelt the 
white clover, 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw 
not the gate ; 
" Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, 
my one lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush ! O, sweet 
nightingale, wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near, 
For my love he is late ! 



" The skies in the darkness stoop nearer 
and nearer, 
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in 
the tree, 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, 
comes clearer : 
To what art thou listening, and what 
dost thou see ? 
Let the star-clusters grow, 
Let the sweet waters flow, 
And cross quickly to me. 



"You night moths that hover where 
honey brims over 
From sycamore blossoms, or settle 
or sleep ; 
You glowworms, shine out, and the 
pathway discover 
To him th'at comes darkling along 
the rough steep. 
Ah, my sailor, make haste, 
For the time runs to waste. 
And my love lieth deep — 



"Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, 
my one lover, 
I've conned thee an answer, it waits 
thee to-night." 
By the sycamore passed he, and through 
the white clover, 
Then all the sweet speech I had 
fashioned took flieht ; 
But I'll love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before. 
Be the days dark or bright. 



58 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 



SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. 

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 
When the ■\\'ind wakes how they rock 
in the grasses, 
And dance with the cuckoo-buds 
slender and small ! " 
Here's two bonny boys, and here's 
mother's own lasses. 
Eager to gather them alh 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 
Mother shall thread them a daisy 
chain ; 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge 
sparrow. 
That loved her brown little ones, 
loved them full fain ; 
Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though 
the house be but narrow " -^- 
Sing once, and sing it again. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend 
and they bow ; 
A ship sails afar over warm ocean 
waters, 
And haply one musing doth stand at 
her prow. 
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little 
daughters, 
Maybe he thinks on you now ! 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and 
tall! 
A sunshiny world full of laughter and 
leisure, 
And fresh hearts unconscious of sor- 
row and thrall ! 
Send down on their pleasure smiles 
passing its measure, 
God that is over us all ! 



5iEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. 

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan 

Before I am well awake ; 
" Let me bleed ! O let me alone, 

Since I must not break 1 " 



For children wake, though fathers sleep 
With a stone at foot and at head : 

sleepless God, for ever keep, 
Keep both living and dead ! 

1 lift mine eyes, and what to see 
But a world happy and fair ! 

I have not wished it to mourn with 
me — 
Comfort is not there. 

O what anear but golden brooms, 
And a waste of reedy rills ! 

what afar but the fine glooms 
On the rare blue hills ! 

1 shall not die, but live forlore— ^ 
How bitter it is to part ! 

to meet thee, my love, once more ! 
O my heart, my heart ! 

No more to hear, no more to see! 

that an echo might wake 

And waft one note of thy psalm to me 
Ere my heart-strings break ! 

1 should know it how faint soe'er. 
And with angel voices blent ; 

O once to feel thy spirit anear ; 

1 could be content ! 

Or once between the gates of gold. 
While an entering angel trod, 

But once — thee sitting to behold 
On the hills of God ! 



SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MAR- 
RIAGE. 

To bear, to nurse, to rear. 

To watch, and then to lose : 
To see my bright ones disappear, 

Drawn up like morning dews — 
To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose : 
This have I done w hen God drew nea: 

Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

And with thy lord depart 
In tears that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart. — 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 



S9 



To hear, to heed, to wed. 
This while thou didst I smiled, 

For now it was not God who said, 
" Mother, give me thy child." 

O fond, O fool, and blind ! 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But when a man like grace would find, 

My soul put by her fears — 
O fond, O fool, and blind ! 

God guards in happier spheres ; 
That man will guard where he did bind 

Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

Fair lot that maidens choose. 
Thy mother's tenderest words are said. 

Thy face no more she views ; 
Thy mother's lot, my dear, 

She doth in nought accuse ; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love — and then to lose. 



SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR 
HOME. 



A song of a boat : — 
There was once a boat on a billow : 
Lightly she rocked to her port remote, 
And the foam was white in her wake 

like snow. 
And her frail mast bowed when the 
breeze would blow. 
And bent like a wand of willow. 



I shaded mine eyes one day when a 
boat 
Went curtseying over the billow, 
I marked her course till a dancing 
mote 
She faded out on the moonlit foam. 
And 1 stayed behind in the dear loved 
home ; 
And my thoughts all day were about 
the boat 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 



I pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short : — 
My boat, you shall find none fairer 
afloat, 
In river or port. 
Long I looked out for the lad she 
bore, 
On the open desolate sea. 
And I think he sailed to the heavenly 
. shore. 
For he came not back to me — 

Ah me ! 



A song of a nest : — 
There was once a nest in a hollow: 
Down in the mosses and knot-grass 

pressed. 
Soft and warm, and full to the brim — 
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, 
With buttercup buds to follow. 



I pray you hear my song of a nest. 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light, in a summer 
quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than thair tender twitter, 

That wind-like did come and go. 



I had a nestful once of my own, 

Ah, happy, happy I ! 
Right dearly I loved them : but when 
tliey were grown 

They spread out their wings to fly — 
O, one after one they flew away 

Far up to the heavenly blue. 
To the better country, the upper day, 

And — I wish I was going too. 



I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest? 
And what is the shore where I stood to 
see 

My boat sail down to the west? 



€o 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 



Can I call that home where I anchor 
yet, 
Though my good man has sailed? 
Can I call that home where my nest 
was set, 
Now all its hope hath failed? 
Nay, but the port where my sailor 
went, 
And the land where my nestlings 
be: ■ 
There is the home where my thoughts 
are sent, 
The only laome for me — 

Ah me ! 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 

We reached the place by night, 

And heard the waves breaking : 
They came to meet us with candles 
alight 
To sliow the path we were taking. 
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was 
white 
With tufted flowers down shaking. 

With head beneath her wing, 
A little wren was sleeping — 

So near, I had found it an easy thing 
To steal her far my keeping 

From the myrtle bough tliat with easy 
swing 
Across the patla was sweeping. 

Down rocky steps rough-hewed, 
Where cup-mosses flowered. 

And under the trees, all twisted and 
rude, 
Wherewith the dell was dowered. 

They led us, where. deep in its solitude 
Lay the cottage, leaf-embowered. 

The thatch was all 'bespread 
With climbing passion flowers ; 

They were wet, and glistened with rain- 
drops, shed 
That day in genial showers. 

"Was never a sweeter nest," we said, 
"Than this little nest of ours." 



1 



We laid us down to sleep : 

But as for me — waking, 
I marked the plunge of the muffled 
deep 

On its sandy reaches breaking; 
For heart-joyance doth sometimes keep 

From slumber, like heart-aching. 

And I was glad that night, 

With no reason ready. 
To give my own heart for its deep de- 
light, 
That flowed like some tidal eddy, _ 
Or shone like a star that was rising 
bright 
With comforting radiance steady. 

But on a sudden — hark! 

Music struck asunder 
Those meshes of bliss, and I wept in 
the dark, 
So sweet was the unseen wonder; 
So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a 
mark. 
The trouble that joy kept under. 

I rose — the moon outshone : 

I saw the sea heaving. 
And a little vessel sailing alone. 

The small crisp wavelet cleaving ; 
'T was she as she sailed to her port un- 
known ^- 

Was that track of sweetness leaving. 



We know they music made 
In heaven, ere man's creation; 

But when God threw it down to us 
that strayed, 
It dropt with lamentation, 

And ever since doth its sweetness shade 
With sighs for its first station. 

Its joy suggests regret — 

Its most for more is yearning; 
And it brings to the soul that its voice 
hath met 
No rest that cadence learning. 
But a conscious part in the sighs that 
fret 
Its nature for returning. 



LIGHT AND SHADE. 



6i 



O Eve, sweet Eve ! metliought 
When sometimes comfort winning, 

As she watched the first children's 
tender sport. 
Sole joy born since her sinning, 

If a bird anear them sang, it brought 
The pang as at beginning. 



While swam the unshed tear, 
Her prattlers, little heeding, 

Would murmur, ".This bird, with its 
carol clear, 
When the red clay, was kneaden, 

And God made Adam our father dear, 
Sang to him thus in Eden." 



The moon went in — the sky 

And earth and sea hiding ; 
I laid me down, with the yearning sigh 

Of that strain in my heart abiding ; 
I slept, and the barque that had sailed 
so nigh 

In my dream was ever gliding. 



I slept, but waked amazed, 

With sudden noise frighted, 
And voices without, and a flash that 
dazed 
My eyes from candles lighted. 
"Ah! surely," methought, "by these 
shouts upraised, _ . 
Some travellers are benighted." 



A voice was at my side 

"Waken, madam, waken! 
The long prayed-for ship at her anchor 
doth ride. 
Let the child from its rest be taken. 
For the captain doth weary for babe 
and for bride — 
Waken, madam, waken! 



" The home you left but late, 
He speeds to it light-hearted ; 

By the wires he sent this news, and 
straight 
To you with it they started." 

O joy for a yearning heart too great, 
O union for the parted ! 



We rose up in the night. 

The morning star was shining ; 
We carried the child in its slumber 
light 

Out by the myrtles twining : 
Orion over the sea hung bright, 

And glorious in declining. 

Mother, to meet her son. 

Smiled first, then wept the rather ; 
And wife, to bind up those links un- 
done. 

And cherished words to gather, 
And to show the face of her little one, 

That had never seen its father. 

That cottage in a chine. 

We were not to behold it ; 
But there may the purest of sunbeams 
shine, 
May freshest flowers enfold it, 
For sake of the news which our hearts 
must twine 
With the bower where we were told it 1 



Now oft, left alone again, 

Sit mother and sit daughter. 
And bless the good ship that sailed 
over the main, 
And the favoring winds that brought 
her; 
While still some new beauty they fable 

and feign 
For the cottage by the. water. 



PERSEPHONE. 

Written for The Portfolio Society, 
January, 1862. 

Stibject given — '•''Light and SJtadeP 

She stepped upon Sicilian grass, 
Demeter's daughter fresh and fair, 

A child of light, a radiant lass. 
And gamesome as the morning air. 

The daffodils were fair to see. 

They nodded lightly on the lea, 

Persephone — Persephone ! 



62 



LIGHT AND SHADE. 



Lo ! one she marked of rarer growth 

Than orchis or anemone ; 
For it the maiden left them both, 

And parted from her company. 
Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still, 
And stooped to gather by the rill 
The daffodil, the daffodil. 

What ailed the meadow that it shook? 

What ailed the air of Sicily ? 
She wondered by the brattling brook, 

And trembled with the trembling lea. 
" The coal-black horses rise — they 

rise: 
O mother, mother! " low she cries — 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

•'O light, light, light!" she cries, 
"farewell; 

The coal-black horses wait for me. 
O shade of shades, where I must dwell, 

Demeter, mother, far from thee ! 
Ah, fated doom that I fulfil! 
Ah, fateful flower beside the fill ! 
The daffodil, the daffodil! " 

What ails her that she comes not home ? 

Demeter seeks her far and wide. 
And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless 
roam 
From many a morn till eventide. 
" My life, immortal though it be. 
Is nought," she cries, "for want of 

thee, 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

" Meadows of Enna, let the rain 
No longer drop to feed your rills, 

Nor dew refresh the fields again, 
With all their nodding daffodils! 

Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea. 

Where thou, dear heart, wert reft from 
me — 

Persephone — Persephone ! " 



She reigns upon her dusky throne, 

' Mid shades of heroes dread to see ; 
Among the dead she breathes alone, 

Persephone — Persephone ! 
Or seated on the Elysian hill 
She dreams of earthly daylight still, 
And murmurs of the "daffodil. 



A voice in Hades soundeth clear, 

The shadows mourn and flit below; 
It cries — " Thou Lord of Hades, hear 

And let Demeter' s daughter go. 
The tender corn upon the lea 
Droops in her goddess gloom when she 
Cries for her lost Persephone. 

" From land to land she raging flies, 
The green fruit falleth in he^ wake. 

And harvest fields beneath her eyes 
To earth the grain- unripened shake. 

Arise, and set the maiden free ; 

Why should the world such sorrow dree 

By reason of Persephone?" 

He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds : 
" Love, eat with me this parting 

day ;" 
Then bids them fetch the coal-black 

steeds — 
" Demeter' s daughter, wouldst 

away?" 
The gates of Hades set her free ; 
" She will return full soon," saith he — 
" My wife, my wife Persephone." 

Low laughs the dark king on his 
throne — 
" I gave her of pomegranate seeds." 
Demeter' s daughter stands alone 
Upon the fair Eleusian meads. 
Her mother meets her. " Hail," saith 

she ; 
" And doth our daylight dazzle thee, 
My love, my child Pfersephone ? 

"What moved thee, daughter, to for- 
sake 
Thy fellow-maids that fatal morn. 
And give thy dark lord ]3ower to take 
Thee living to his reahn forlorn ?" 
Her lips reply without her will. 
As one addressed who slumbereth 

still — 
" The daffodil, the daffodil! " 

Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, 
And sunny wafts that round her stir, 

Her cheek upon her mother's breast — 
Demeter's kisses comfort her. 

Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she 

Who stepped so lightly on the lea — 

Persephone, Persephone ? 



A SEA SONG. — BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



When, in her destined course, the moon 
Meets the deep shadow of this world, 
And laboring on doth seem to swoon 
Through awful wastes of dimness 
whirled — 
Emerged at length, no trace hath she 
Of that dark hour of destiny, 
Still silvery sweet — Persephone. 

The greater world may near the less, 
And draw it through her weltering 
shade, 
But not one biding trace impress 

Of all the darkness that she made ; 
The greater soul that draweth thee 
Hath left his shadow plain to see 
On thy fair face, Persephone ! 

Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well 
The wife should love her destiny : 

They part, and yet, as legends tell, 
She mourns her lost Persephone ; 

While chant the maids of Enna still — 

"O fateful flower beside the rill — 

The daffodil, the daffodil! " 



A SEA SONG. 

Old Albion sat on a crag of late, 
And sung out — " Ahoy ! ahoy ! 
Long life to the captain, good luck to 
the- mate. 
And this to my sailor boy ! 
Come over, come home, 
Through the salt sea foam, 
My sailor, my sailor boy ! 

" Here's a crown to be given away, I 
ween, 
A crown for my sailor's head, 
And all for the worth of a widowed 
queen. 
And the love of the noble dead, 
And the fear and fame 
Of the island's name 
Where my boy was born and bred. 

"Content thee, content thee, let it 

alone, 
Thou marked for a choice so rare ; 
Though treaties be treaties, never a 

throne 



Was proffered for cause as fair. 
Yet come to me home. 
Through the salt sea foam, 

For the Greek must ask elsewhere. 

" 'TIs pity, my sailor, but who can tell ? 

Many lands they look to me ; 
One of these might be wanting a Prince 
as well, 
But that's as hereafter may be." 
She raised her white head 
And laughed ; and she said, 
" That's as hereafter may be." 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

It was a village built in a green rent. 
Between two cliffs that skirt the dan- 
gerous bay. 

A reef of level rock runs out to sea, 
And you may lie on it and look sheer 

down, 
Just where the " Grace of Sunderland" 

was lost. 
And see the elastic banners of the dulse 
Rock softly, and the orange star-fish 

creep 
Across the laver, and the mackerel 

shoot 
Over and under it, like silver boats 
Turning at will and plying underwater. 

There on that reef we lay upon our 
breasts, [lads, 

My brother and I, and half the village 

For an old fisherman had called to us 

With " Sirs, the syle be come." " And 
what are they ?" ■ 

My brother said. ''Good lack!" the 
old man cried, 

And shook his head; "to think you 
gentlefolk 

Should ask what syle be ! Look you; 
I can't say 

What syle be called in your fine dic- 
tionaries. 

Nor wlrat name God Almighty call? 
them by 

When their food's ready and He sends 
them south ; 



64 



BROTHERS, AND 



sermon: 



But our folk call them syle, and nought 

but syle, 
And when they're grown, w^hy then 

we call them herring. 
I tell you. Sir, the water is as full 
Of them as pastures be of blades of 

grass ; 
You'll draw a score out in a landing 

net, 
And none of them be longer than a pin. 

" Syle! ay, indeed, we should be badly 

off, 
I reckon, and so would God Almighty's 

gulls," 
He grumbled on in his quaint piety, 
" And all his other birds, if He should 

say 
I will not drive my syle into' the south ; 
The fisher folk may do without my syle, 
And do without the shoals of fish it 

draws 
To follow and feed on it." 

This said, we made 
Our peace with him by means of two 

small coins, 
And down we ran and lay upon the reef. 
And saw the swimming infants, emer- 
ald green. 
In separate shoals, the scarcely turning 

ebb 
Bringing them in ; while sleek, and not 

intent 
On chase, but taking that which came 

to hand. 
The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet 

swam 
Between ; and settling on the polished 

sea, 
A thousand snow-white gulls sat lov- 
ingly 
In social rings, and twittered while they 

fed. 
The village dogs and ours, elate and 

brave, 
Lay looking over, barking at the fish ; 
Fast, fast the silver creatures took the 

bait, 
And when they heaved and floundered 

on the rock. 
In beauteous misery, a sudden pat 
Some shagg}'^ pup would deal, then 

back away, 



At distance eye them with sagacious 
doubt. 

And shrink half frighted from the slip- 
pery things. 

And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow 
Rose high enough to drive us from the 

reef ; 
The fisher lads went home across the 

sand ; 
We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour 

or more. 
Talking and looking down. It was not 

talk 
Of much significance, except for this — 
That we had more in common than of 

old. 
For both were tired; I with overwork, 
He with inaction ; I was glad at heart 
To rest, and he was glad to have an ear 
That he could grumble to, and half in 

jest 
Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs, 
And the misfortune of a good estate — 
Misfortune that was sure to pull him 

down, 
Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless 

man : 
Indeed he felt himself deteriorate 
Already. Thereupon he sent down 

showers 
Of clattering stones, to emphasize his 

words. 
And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily 
Into the seething wave. And as for 

me, 
I railed at him and at ingratitude, 
While rifling of the basket he had slung 
Across his shoulders ; then with right 

good will 
We fell to work, and feasted like the 

gods. 
Like laborers, or like eager workhouse 

folk 
At Yuletide dinner ; or, to say the whole 
At once, like tired, hungiy, healthy 

youth. 
Until the meal being o'er, the tilted 

flask _ 
Drained of its latest drop, the meat and 

bread 
And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs 
Mumbling the bones, this elder brother 

of mine — 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



6S 



This man, that never felt an ache or pain 
In his broad, well-knit frame, and never 

knew 
The trouble of an unforgiven grudge, 
Tlie sting of a regretted meanness, nor 
The desperate struggle of the unen- 
dowed 
For place and for possession — he began 
To sing a rhyme that he himself had 

wrought ; 
Sending it out with cogitative pause, 
As if the scene where he had shaped it 

first 
Had rolled it back on him, and meet- 
ing it 
Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind 
Whether his dignity it well beseemed 
To sing of pretty maiden : 

Goldilocks sat on the grass, 

Tying up of posies rare ; 
Hardly could a sunbeam pass 

Through the cloud that was her hair. 
Purple orchis lasteth long. 

Primrose flowers are pale and clear ; 
O the maiden sang, a song 

It would do you good to hear ! 

Sad before her leaned the boy, 

" Goldilocks that I love well, 
Happy creature fair and coy, 

Think o' me, Sweet Amabel." 
Goldilocks she shook apart, 

Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes ; 
Like a blossom on her heart 

Opened out her first surprise. 

As a gloriole sign o' grace. 

Goldilocks, ah, fall and flow 
On the bloomirur, childlike face, 

Dimple, dimple, come and go. 
Give her time ; on grass and sky 

Let her gaze if she be fain : 
As they looked ere he drew nigh, 

They will never look again. 

Ah ! the playtime she has known. 

While her goldilocks grew long, 
Is it like a nestling flown, 

Childhood over like a song ? . 
Yes, the boy may clear his brow, 

Though she thinks to say him nay, 
When she sighs, " I cannot now — 

Come again some other day." 



"Hold there!" he cried, half angry 

with himself ; 
"That ending goes amiss:" then 

turned again 
To the old argument that we had held — 
"Now look you!" said my brother, 

" you may talk 
Till, weary of the talk, I answer ' Ay, 
There's reason in your words ; ' and 

you may talk 
Till I go on to say, ' This should be so ; ' 
And you may talk till I shall further own 
' It is so ; yes, I am a lucky dog! ' 
Yet not the less shall I next morning 

wake. 
And with a natural and fervent sigh, 
Such as you never heaved, I shall ex- 
claim 
' What an unlucky dog I am ! ' " And 

here 
He broke into a laugh. " But as for 

you — 
You! on all hands you have the best 

of mfc ; 
Men have not robbed vou of your birth- 
right — work. 
Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field. 
Nor wedded heiresses against their will, 
Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, 

nor overreached. 
That you might drone a useless life 

away 
'Mid half a score of bleak and barren 

farms 
And half a dozen bogs." 

" O rare ! " I cried ; 
" His wrongs go nigh to make him 

eloquent : 
Now we behold how far bad actions 

reach ! 
Because five hundred years ago a 

Knight 
Drove geese and beeves out from a 

franklin's yard ; 
Because three hundred years ago a 

squire — 
Against her will, and for her fair estate — 
Married a very ugly, red-haired maid. 
The blest inheritor of all their pelf, 
While in the full enjoyment t)f the same, 
Sighs on his own coiifession every day. 
He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, 
Nor eats of beef but thinking on that 

wrong ; 



66 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



Then, yet the more to be revenged on 

them, 
And shame their ancient pride, if they 

should know. 
Works hard as any horse for his degree, 
And takes to writing verses." 

" Ay," he said. 
Half laughing at himself. " Yet you 

and I, 
But for those tresses which enrich us 

yet 
With somewhat of the hue that partial 

fame 
Calls auburn when it shines on heads 

of heirs. 
But when it flames round brows of 

younger sons, 
Just red — mere red ; whj-^, but for this, 

I say. 
And but for selfish getting of the land, 
And beggarly entailing it, we two, 
To-day well fed, well grown, well 

dressed, well read, 
We might have been two homy-handed 

boors — 
Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged 

boors — 
Planning for moonlight nights a" poach- 
ing scheme, 
Or soiling our dull souls and consciences 
With plans for pilfering a cottage roost. 

"What, chorus! are you dumb? j^ou 

should have cried, 
' So good comes out of evil ; ' " and 

with that, 
As if all pauses it was natural 
To seize for songs, his voice broke out 

again ; 

Coo, dove, to thy married mate — 
She has two wann eggs in her nest : 

Tell her the hours are few to wait 
Ere life shall dawn on their rest ; 

And thy young shall peck at the shells,* 
elate 
With a dream of her brooding breast. 



Coo, dove, for she counts the hours, 

Her fair wings ache for flight : 
By day the apple has grown in the 
flowers, 



And the moon has grown by night. 
And the white drift settled from haw 
thorn bowers, 
Yet they will not seek the light. 

Coo, dove ; but what of the sky ? 

And what if the storm-wind swell. 
And the reeling branch come down from 
on high 
To the grass where daisies dwell. 
And the brood beloved should with them 
lie 
Or ever they break the shell ? 

Coo, dove ; and yet black clouds lower. 
Like fate, on the far-off sea : 

Thunder and wind they bear to thy 
bower. 
As on wings of destiny. 

Ah, what if they break in an evil hour, 
As they broke over mine and me ? 

What next? — we started like to girls, 

for lo ! 
The creaking voice, more harsh than 

rusty crane, 
Of one who stooped behind us, cried 

aloud, 
" Good lack ! how sweet the gentleman 

does sing — 
So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his 

throat. 
Why, Mike's a child to him, a two- 



yeav 



s child — 



A Chrisom child." 

" Who's I\Iike ?" my brother growled 
A little roughly. Quoth the fisher- 
man — 
"Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no 

more ; 
But he can sing, when he takes on to 

sing. 
So loud tliere's not a sparrow in the spire 
But needs must hear. Sir, if I might 

make bold, 
I'd ask what song that was you sung. 

My mate. 
As we were shoving off the mackerel 

boats. 
Said he, ' I'll wager that's the sort o' 

song 
They kept their hearts up with ii> tha 

Crimea.' " 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



67 



" There, fisherman," quoth I, " he 

showed his wit, 
Your mate ; he marked the sound of 

savage war — 
Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and 

bursting shells, 
And ' murderous messages,' delivered 

by 
Spent balls that break the heads of 

dreaming men." 

"Ay, ay, Sir!" quoth the fisherman. 
" Have done ! " 

My brother. And, I— "The gift be- 
longs to few 

Of sending farther than the words can 
reach 

Their spirit and expression;" still 
" Have done! " 

He cried ; and then " I rolled the rub- 
bish out 

More loudly than the meaning war- 
ranted. 

To air my lungs — I thought not on 
the words." 

Then said the fisherman, who missed 

the point, 
" So Mike rolls out the psalm ; you'll 

hear him, Sir, 
Please God you live till Sunday." 

'' Even so : 
And you, too, fisherman ; for here, they 

say, 
You all are church-goers:" 

" Surely, Sir," quoth he, 
Took off his hat, and stroked his old 

white head 
And wrinkled face ; then sitting by us 

said, 
As one that utters with a quiet mind 
Unchallenged truth — "'Tis lucky for 

the l|Eiats." 

The boats! 'tis lucky for the boats! 

Our eyes 
Were drawn to him as either fain would 

say. 
What ! do they send the psalm up In 

the spire 
And pray because 'tis lucky for the 

boats } 



But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled 

man, 
That all his life had been a church- 
goer, 
Familiar with celestial cadences, 
Informed of all he could receive, and 

sure 
Of all he understood — he sat content, 
And we kept silence. In his reverend 

face 
There was a simpleness we could not 

sound ; 
Much truth had passed him overhead ; 

some error 
He had trod under foot ; — God comfort 

him ! 
He could not learn of us, for we were 

young 
And he was old, and so we gave It up ; 
And the sun went Into the west, and 

down 
Upon the water stooped an orange 

cloud, 
And the pale milky reaches flushed, as 

glad 
To wear its colors ; and the sultry air 
Went out to sea, and puffed the -sails 

of ships 
With thymy wafts, the breath of trod- 
den grass : 
It took moreover music, for across 
The heather belt and over pasture land 
Came the sweet monotone of one slow 

bell. 
And parted time Into divisions rare. 
Whereof each morsel brought its own 

delight. 

"They ring for service," quoth the 

fisherman ; 
"Our parson preaches m the church 

to-night." 

" And do'the people go ? " my brother 
asked. 

"Ay, Sir; they count It mean to stay 

away, 
He takes it so to heart. He's a rare 

man, 
Our parson ; half a head above us all." 

"That's a great gift, and notable,'' 
said I. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



*' Ay, Sir ; and when he was a younger 

man 
He went out in the life-boat very oft, 
Before the 'Grace of Sunderland' was 

wrecked. 
He's never been his own man since 

that hour; 
For there were thirty men aboard of her, 
Anigh as close as you are now to me. 
And ne' er a one was saved. 

They're lying now, 
With two small children, in a row : the 

church 
And yard are full of seamen's graves, 

and few 
Have any names. 

She bumped upon the reef ; 
Our parson, my young son, and several 

more 
Were lashed together with a two-inch 

rope. 
And crept along to her; their mates 

ashore 
Ready to haul them in. The gale was 

high, 
The sea was all a boiling, seething froth. 
And God Almighty's guns were going 

off. 
And the land trembled. 

" When she took the ground. 
She went to pieces like a lock of hay 
Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came 

to that, 
The captain reeled on deck with two 

small things, 
One in each arm — his little lad and 

lass. 
Their hair was long, and blew before 

his face, 
Or else we thought he had been saved ; 

he fell, 
But held them fast. The crew, poor 

luckless souls! 
The breakers licked them off; and 

some were crushed, 
Some swallowed in the yeast, some 

flung up dead, 
The dear breath beaten out of them: 

not one 
Jumped from the wreck upon the reef 

to catch 
The hands that strained to reach, but 

tumbled back 



With eyes wide open. But the captain 

lay 
And clung — the only man alive. They 

prayed — 
'For God's sake, captain, throw the 

children here I ' 
'Throw them ! ' our parson cried ; and 

then she struck : 
And he threw one, a pretty two-years 

child ; 
But the gale dashed him on the slip- 
pery verge. 
And down he went. They say they 

heard him cry. 

"Then he rose up and took the other ^ 
one. 

And all our men reached out their hun- 
gry arms. 

And cried out, ' Throw her ! ' and he 
did : _ 

He threw her right against the parson's 
breast, 

And all at once a sea broke over them, 

And they that saw it from the shore 
have said 

It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scat- 
tered it. 

Just as a woman might the lump of 
salt 

That 'twixt her hands into the knead- 
ing-pan 

She breaks and crumbles on her rising 
bread. 

" We hauled oar men in : two of them 

were dead — 
The sea had beaten them, their heads 

hung down ; 
Our parson's arms were empty, for the 

wave 
Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb ; 
We often, see him stand beside her 

grave : 
But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his. 

" I ask your pardon, Sirs; I prate and 

prate, 
And never have I said what brought 

me here. 
Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow 

morn, 
I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like 

mine." 



BROTHERS, AND A SER3I0N. 



69 



"Ay, that was what we wanted," we 

replied ; 
"A boat, his boat ;" and off he went, 

well pleased. 

We, too, rose up (the crimson in the 

sky- 
Flushing our faces), and went saunter- 
ing on. 

And thought to reach our lodging, by 
the cliff. 

And up and down among the heather 
beds. 

And up and down between the sheaves, 
we sped. 

Doubling and winding ; for a long ra- 
vine 

Ran up into the land and cut us off. 

Pushing out slippery ledges for the 
birds. 

And rent with many a crevice, where 
the wind 

Had laid up drifts of empty egg-shells, 
swept 

From the bare berths of gulls and guil- 
lemots. 

So as it chanced we lighted on a path 

That led into a nutwood ; and our talk 

Was louder than beseemed, if we had 
known, 

With argument and laughter ; for the 
path. 

As we sped onward, took a sudden turn 

Abrupt, and we came out on church- 
yard grass. 

And close upon a porch, and face to 
face 

With those within, and with the thirty 
graves. 

We heard the voice of one who preached 
within, . 

And stopped. " Come on," my brother 
whispered me ;' 

" It were more decent that we enter 
now ; 

Come on ! we'll hear this rare old dem- 
igod : 

I like strong men and large ; I like 
grey heads. 

And grand gruff voices, hoarse though 
this may be 

With shouting in the storm." 



It was not hoarse, 
The voice that preached to those few 

fishermen. 
And women, nursing mothers with the 

babes 
Hushed on their breasts ; and yet it 

held them not : ' 
Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look 

at us, 
Till, having leaned our rods against 

the wall, 
And left the dogs at watch, we entered, 

sat. 
And were apprised that, though he saw 

us not. 
The parson knew that he had lost the 

eyes 
And ears of those before him, for he 

made 
A pause — a long dead pause — and 

dropped his arms. 
And stood awaiting, till I felt the red 
Mount to my brow. 

And a soft fluttering stir 
Passed over all, and everj' mother 

hushed 
The babe beneath her shawl, and he 

turned round 
And met our eyes, unused to diffidence. 
But diiifident of his ; then with a sigh 
Fronted the folk, lifted his grand grey 

head. 
And said, as one that pondered now 

the words • 

He had been preaching on with new 

surprise, 
And found fresh marvel in their sound, 

"Behold! 
Behold!" saith He, "I stand at the 

door and knock." 

Then said the parson: "What! and 
shall He wait, 

And must He wait, not only till we say, 

' Good Lord, the house is clean, the 
hearth is swept. 

The children sleep, the mackerel-boats 
are in. 

And all the nets are mended; there- 
fore I 

Will slowly to the door and open it ;' 

But must He also wait where still, be- 
hold! 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



He stands and knocks, while we do say, 

' Good Lord, 
The gentlefolk are come to worship 

here. 
And I will up and open to Thee soon ; 
But first I pray a little longer wait, 
For I am taken up with them ; my eyes 
Must needs regard the fashion of their 

clothes. 
And count the gains I think to make 

. by them ; 
Forsooth, they are of much account, 

good Lord! 
Therefore have patience with me — 

wait, dear Lord! 
Or come again ? ' 

" What I must He wait for this — 
For this? Ay, He doth wait for this, 

and still, 
Waiting for this. He, patient, raileth 

not ; 
Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, 

'"Behold! 
I stand at the door and knock.' 

" O patient hand! 
Knocking and waiting — knocking in 

the night 
When work is done ! I charge you, by 

the sea 
Whereby you fill your children's 

mouths, and by 
The might of Him that made it — fish- 
ermen ! 
I charge you, mothers! by the mother's 

milk 
He drew^, and by His Father, God 

over all. 
Blessed for ever, that ye answer Him ! 
Open the door with shame, if ye have 

sinned ; 
If ye be sorrj', open it with sighs. 
Albeit the place be bare for poverty. 
And comfortless for lack of plenishing. 
Be not abashed for that, but open it. 
And take Him in that comes to sup 

with thee ; 
'Behold!' He saith, 'I stand at the 

door and knock.' 



Now, hear me : there be troubles in 
this world 



That no man can escape, and ther** >*« 
one 

That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, 

Concerning that which is to come : — _ 
I say 

As a man that knows what earthly 
trouble means, 

I will not bear this one — I cannot 
bear 

This ONE — I cannot bear the we ght 
of you — 

You — every one of you, body and soul ; 

You, with the care you suffer, and the 
loss 

That you sustain ; yoii, with the grow- 
ing up 

To peril, maybe with the growing old 

To want, unless before I stand with 
you 

At the great w-hite throne, I may be 
free of all, 

And utter to the full what shall dis- 
charge 

Mine obligation : nay, I will not wait 

A day, for every time the black clouds 
rise. 

And the gale freshens, still I search 
my soul 

To find if there be aught that can per- 
suade 

To good, or aught forsooth that can 
beguile 

From evil, that I (miserable man ! 

If that be so) have left unsaid, undone. 

" So that when any risen from sunken 

wrecks, 
Or rolled in by the billows to the edge 
Of the everlasting strand, what time 

the sea 
Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they 

may say 
Never, 'Old man, you told us not of 

this ; 
You left us fisher-lads that had to toil 
Ever in danger of the secret stab 
Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger ; 

winds 
Of breath more murderous than the 

cannon's ; waves 
Mighty to rock us to our death; and 

gulfs 
Ready beneath to suck and swallow us 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



71 



This, crime be on your head ; and as 

for us — 
What shall we do?' but rather — nay, 

not so, 
I will not think it ; I will leave the 

dead. 
Appealing but to life : I am afraid 
Of you, but not so much if you have 

sinned 
As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. 
The day was, I have been afraid of 

pride — 
Hard man' s hard pride ; but now I am 

afraid 
Of man's humility. ' I counsel you. 
By the great God's great humbleness, 

and by 
His pity, be not humble over-much. 
See! I will show at whose unopened 

doors 
He stands and knocks, that you may 

never say, 
' I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost ; 
He knocks at other doors, but not at 

mine.' 



"See here! it is the night! it is the 

night ! 
And snow lies thickly, white untrodden 

snow. 
And the wan moon upon a casement 

shines — 
A casement crusted o'er with frosty 

leaves. 
That make her ray less bright along the 

floor. 
A woman sits, with hands upon her 

knees. 
Poor tired soul ! and she has nought to 

do. 
For there is neither fire nor candle 

light: 
The driftwood ash lies cold upon her 

hearth ; 
The rushlight flickered down an hour 

ago; 
Her children wail a little in their sleep 
For cold and hunger ; and, as if that 

sound 
Was not enough, another comes to her, 
Over God's undefiled snow — a song — 
Nay, never hang your heads — I say, a 

song. 



"And doth she curse the alehouse, 
and the sots 

That drink the night out and their earn- 
ings there. 

And drink their manly strength and 
courage down. 

And drink away the little children's 
bread. 

And starve her, starving by the self- 
same act 

Her tender suckling, that with piteous 
eyes 

Looks in her face, till scarcely she has 
heart 

To work and earn the scanty bit and 
drop 

That feed the others? 

" Does she curse the song? 

I think not, fishermen ; I have not 
heard 

Such women curse. God's curse is 
curse enough. 

To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, 

Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises 
show — 

A bitter thing, but meant for an ex- 
cuse — 

' My master is not worse than many 
men : ' 

But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and 
still ; 

No food, no comfort, cold and poverty 

Bearing her down. 

" My heart is sore for her ; 
How long, how long? When troubles 

come of God, 
When men are frozen out of work, 

when wives 
Are sick, when working fathers fail and 

die. 
When boats go down at sea — then 

naught behooves 
Like patience ; but for troubles wrought 

of men 
Patience is hard — I tell you it is hard. 

"O thou poor soul! it is the night — 

the night; 
Against thy door drifts up the silent 

snow. 
Blocking thy threshold: 'Fall,' thou 

sayest, 'fall, fall, 



72 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



Cold snow, and lie and be trod under- 
foot. 
Am not I fallen? wake up and pipe, 

O wind. 
Dull wind, and beat and bluster at my 

door: 
Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough 

song. 
For there "is other music made to-night 
That I would fain not hear. Wake, 

thou still sea, 
Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white 

waterfall. 
O, I could long like thy cold icicles 
Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the 

frosty clift 
And not complain, so I might melt at 

last 
In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt 

do! 

" ' But woe is me ! I think there is no 
sun ; 

My sun is sunken, and the night grows 
dark : 

None care for me. The children cry 
for bread. 

And I have none, and naught can com- 
fort me ; 

Even if the heavens were free to such 
as I, 

It were not much, for death is long to 
wait. 

And heaven is far to go ! ' 

** And speak' St thou thus, 
Despairing of the sun that sets to thee. 
And of the earthly love that wanes to 

thee. 
And of the heaven that lieth far from 

thee? 
.Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth 

near thy door 
Whose footsteps leave no print across 

the snow : 
Thy sun has risen with comfort in his 

face, 
The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen 

heart 
And bless with saintly hand. What! 

is it long 
To wait, and far to go? Thou shall 

not go ; 



Behold, across the snow to thee He 

comes, 
Thy heaven descends ; and is it long to, 

wait ? 
Thou shalt not wait : 'This night, this 

night,' He saith, 
' I stand at the door and knock.' 

"It is enough — can such an one be 
here — 

Yea, here? O God forgive you, fisher- 
men ! 

One I is there only one ? But do thou 
know, 

woman pale for want, if thou art 

here. 
That on thy lot much thought is spent 

in heaven ; 
And, coveting the heart a hard man 

broke. 
One standeth patient, watching in the 

night. 
And waiting in the day-time. 

"What shall be 
If thou wilt answer ? He will smile on 

thee ; 
One smile of His shall be enough to 

heal 
The wound of man's neglect; and He 

will sigh, 
Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall 

cure ; 
And He will speak — speak in the des- 
olate night, 
In the dark night : ' For me a thorny 

. crown 
Men wove, and nails were driven in my 

hands 
And feet: there was an earthquake, 

and I died ; 

1 died, and am alive for evermore. 

" ' I died for thee ; for thee I am alive, 
And my humanity doth mourn for thee, 
For thou art mine ; and all thy little 

ones. 
They, too, are mine, are mine. Be- 
hold, the house 
Is dark, but there is brightness wherdi 

the sons 
Of God are singing ; and, behold, the 
heart 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



73 



Is troubled: yet the nations walk in 

white ; 
They have forgotten how to weep ; and 

thou 
Shalt also come, and I will foster thee 
And satisfy thy soul ; and thou shalt 

warm 
Thy trembling life beneath the smile of 

God. 
A little while — it is a little while — 
A little while, and I will comfort thee ; 
I go away, but I will come again.' 

" But hear me yet. There was a poor 

old man 
Who sat and listened to the raging sea. 
And heard it thunder, lunging at the 

cliffs 
As like to tear them down. He lay at 

night ; 
And ' Loi d have mercy on the lads,' 

said he, 
'That sailed at noon, though they be 

none of mine ! 
For when the gale gets up, and when 

the wind 
Flings at the window, when it beats 

the roof. 
And lulls, and stops, and rouses up 

again, 
And cuts the crest clean off the plung- 
ing wave, 
And scatters it like feathers up the field, 
W hy, then I think of my two lads : my 

lads 
That would have worked and never let 

me want. 
And never let me take the parish pay. 
No, none of mine ; my lads were 

drowned at sea — 
My two — before the most of these 

were born. 
I know how sharp that cuts, since my 

poor wife 
Walked up and down, and still walked 

up and down, 
And I walked after, and one could not 

hear 
A word the other said, for wind and 

sea 
That raged and beat and thundered in 

the night — 
The awfullest, the longest, lightest 

night 



That ever parents had to spend — a 

moon 
That shone like daylight on the break- 
ing wave. 
Ah me ! and other men have lost their 

lads. 
And other women wiped their poor 

dead mouths, 
And got them home and dried them in 

the house, 
And seen the driftwood lie along the 

coast 
That was a tidy boat but one day back. 
And seen ne.xt tide the neighbors gather 

it 
To lay it on their fires. 

Ay, I was strong 
And able-bodied — loved my work; — 

but now 
I am a useless hull : 'tis time I sunk ; 
I am in all men's way ; I trouble them ; 
I am a trouble to myself: but yet 
I feel for mariners of stormy nights. 
And feel for wives that watch ashore. 

Ay, ay ! 
If I had learning I would pray the Lord 
To bring them in : but I'm no scholar, 

no ; 
Book-learning is a world too hard for 

me : 
But I make bold to say, O Lord, good 

Lord, 
I am a broken-down poor man, a fool 
To speak to Thee: but in the Book 

' tis writ. 
As I hear say from others that can read, 
How, when Thou camest. Thou didst 

love the sea, 
And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis 

sure 
Thou knowest all the peril they go 

through, 
And all their trouble. 

As for me, good Lord, 
I have no boat ; I am too old, too old — 
INIy lads are drowned ; I buried my poor 

wife ; 
I\ty little lasses died so long ago 
That mostly I forget what they were 

like. 
Thou knowest. Lord ; they were such 

little ones 
I know they went to thee, but I forget 
Their faces, though 1 missed them sore. 



74 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON: 



O Lord, 
I was a strong man ; I have drawn good 

food 
And made good money out of Thy 

great sea : 
But yet I cried for them at nights ; and 

now, 
Ahhough I be so old, I miss my lads. 
And there be many folk this stormy 

night 
Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful 

Lord, 
Comfort them ; save their honest boys, 

their pride, 
And let them hear next ebb the bless- 

edest, 
Best sound — the boat keels grating on 

the sand. 



" ' I cannot pray with finer words : I 

know 
Nothing ; I have no learning, cannot 

learn — 
Too old, too old. They say I want for 

naught, 
I have the parish pay ; but I am dull 
Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms 

me through. 
God save me — I have been a sinful 

man — 
And save the lives of them that still 

can work. 
For they are good to me ; ay, good to 

me. 
But, Lord, I am a trouble ! and I sit. 
And I am lonesome, and the nights 

are few 
That any think to come and draw a 

chair. 
And sit in my poor place and talk 

awhile. 
Why should they come, forsooth ? Only 

the wind 
Knocks at my door, O long and loud it 

knocks. 
The only thing God made that has a 

mind 
To enter in.' 



" Yea, thus the old man spake ; 
These were the last words of his aged 
mouth — 



But One did knock. One came to 

sup with him, 
That humble, weak old man ; knocked 

at his door 
In the rough pauses of the laboring 

wind. 
I tell you that One knocked while it 

was dark. 
Save where their foaming passion had 

made white 
Those livid seething billows. What 

He said 
In that poor place where He did talk 

awhile 
I cannot tell ; but this I am assured, 
That when the neighbors came the 

morrow morn. 
What time the wind had bated, and 

the sun 
Shone on the old man's floor, they saw 

the smile 
He passed away in, and they said, ' He 

looks 
As he had woke and seen the face of 

Christ, 
And with that rapturous smile held out 

his arms 
To come to Him ! ' 

" Can such an one be here, 
So old, so weak, so ignorant, so frail ? 
The Lord be good to tliee, thou poor 

old man ; 
It would be hard with thee if heaven 

were shut 
To such as have not learning! Nay, 

nay, nay, 
He condescends to them of low estate ; 
To such as are despised He cometh 

down, 
Stands at the door and knocks. 

" Yet bear with me. 

I have a message ; I have more to say. 

Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin — 

That burden ten times heavier to be 
borne ? 

What think you? Shall the virtuous 
have His care 

Alone ? O virtuous women, think not 
scorn. 

For you may lift your faces every- 
where ; 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



And now that it grows dusk, and I can 
see 

None though they front me straight, I 
fain would tell 

A certain thing to you. I say \.o ymi ; 

And if it doth concern you, as methinks 

It doth, then surely it concernelh all. 

I say that there was once — I say not 
here — 

I say that there was once a castaway, 

And she was weeping, weeping bitterly ; 

Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick 
cry 

That choked itself in sobs — 'O my 
good name ! 

O my good name!' And none did 
hear her cry ! 

Nay ; and it lightened, and the storm- 
bolts f.-Il, 

And the rain splashed upon the roof, 
and still 

She, storm-tost as the storming ele- 
ments — 

She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, 

' O my good name ! ' And then the 
thunder-cloud 

Stooped low and burst in darkness over- 
head, 

And rolled, ahd rocked her on her 
knees, and shook 

The frail foundations of her dwelling- 
place. 

But she — if any neighbor had come in 

(None did) : if any neighbors had come 
in. 

They might have seen her crying on 
her knees, 

And sobbing, ' Lost, lost, lost ! ' beat- 
ing her breast — 

Her breast for ever pricked with cruel 
thorns. 

The wounds whereof could neither balm 
assuage 

Nor any patience heal —beating her 
brow. 

Which ached, it had been bent so long 
to hide 

From level eyes, whose meaning was 
contempt. 



" O ye good women, it is hard to 

leave 
The paths of virtue, and return again. 



What if this sinner wept, and none of 

you 
Comforted her ? And what if she did 

strive 
To mend, and none of you believed her 

strife, 
Nor looked upon her ? Mark, I do not 

say. 
Though it was hard, you therefore were 

to blame 
That she had aught against you, though 

your feet 
Never drew near her door. But I be- 
seech 
Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem 
A vvoman kneeled at consecrated feet. 
Kissed them, and washed them with 

her tears. 

What then? 
I think that yet our Lord is pitiful : 
I think I see the castaway e'en now! 
And she is not alone : the heavy rain 
Splashes without, and sullen thunder 

roUs, 
But she is lying at the sacred feet 
Of One transfigured. 

" And her tears flow down, 
Down to her lips — her lips that kiss 

the print 
Of nails ; and love is like to break her 

heart ! 
Love and repentance — foi it still doth 

work 
Sore in her soul to think, to think that 

she, 
Even she, did pierce the sacred, sacred 

feet, 
And bruise the thorn-crowned head. 

" O Lord, our Lord, 
How great is Thy compassion ! Come, 

good Lord, 
For we will open. Come this night, 

good Lord ; 
Stand at the door and knock. 

"And is this all? 
Trouble, old age and simpleness, and 

sin — 
This all? It might be all some other 

night; 
But this night, -if a voice said, 'Give 

account 



Whom hast thou with thee? 

must I reply, 
'Young manhood have I, beautiful 

youth and strength, 
Rich with all treasure drawn up from 

the crypt 
Where lies the learning of the ancient 

world — 
Brave with all thoughts that poets fling 

upon 
The strand of life, as driftweed after 

storms : 
Doubtless familiar with Thy mountain 

heads, 
And the dread purity of Alpine snows, 
Doubtless familiar with Thy works con- 
cealed 
For ages from mankind — outlying 

worlds, 
And many mooned spheres — and Thy 

great store 
Of stars, more thick than mealy dust 

which here 
Powders the pale leaves of auriculas. 

" ' This do I know, but, Lord, I know 
not more. 

"'Not more concerning them — con- 
cerning Thee, 

1 know Thy bounty ; where Thou giv- 
est much 

Standing without, if any call Thee in' 

Thou givest more.' Speak, then, O 
rich and strong : 

Open, O happy young, ere yet the 
hand 

Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, 
forbear ; 

The patient foot its thankless quest re- 
frain, 

The wounded heart for evermore with- 
draw." 

I have heard many speak, but this one 

man — 
So anxious not to go to heaven alone — 
This one man I remember, and his 

look. 
Till twilight overshadowed him. He 

ceased, 
And out in darkness 'with the fisher 

folk 



A WEDDING SONG. 
then 



We passed and stumbled over mounds 

of moss, 
And heard, but did not see, the passing 

beck. 
Ah, graceless heart, would that it could 

regain 
From the dim storehouse of sensations 

past 
The impress full of tender awe, that 

night, 
Which fell on me! It was as if the 

Christ 
Had been drawn down from heaven to 

track us liome. 
And any of the footsteps following us 
Might have been His. 



A WEDDING SONG. 

Come up the broad river, the Thames, 
my Dane, 
My Dane with the beautiful eyes ! 
Thousands and thousands await thee 
full fain. 
And talk of the wind and the skies. 
Fear not from folk and from country to 
part, 
O, I swear it is wisely done ; 
For (I said) I will bear me by thee, 
sweetheart, 
As becometh my father's son. 

Great London was shouting as I went 
down. 
" She is worthy," I said, " of this ; 
What shall I give who have promised 
a crown ? 
O, first I will give her a kiss." 
So I kissed her and brought her, my 
Dane, my Dane, 
Through the waving wonderful 
crowd : 
Thousands and thousands, they shouted 
amain, 
Like mighty thunders and loud. 

And they said, " He is J'oung, the lad 
we love. 
The heir of the Isles is young: 
How we deem of his mother, and one 
gone above. 
Can neither be said nor sung. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



77 



He brings us a pledge — he will do his 
part 
With the best of his race and 
name ;" — 
And I will, for I look to live, sweet- 
heart, 
As may suit with my mother's fame. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

I LOVE this grey old church, the low, 

long nave, 
The ivied chancel and the slender 

spire ; 
No less its shadow on each heaving 

grave, 
With growing osier bound, or living 

briar ; 
I love those yew-tree trunks, where 

stand arrayed 
So many deep-cut names of youth and 

maid. 



A simple custom this — I love it well — 
A carved betrothal and a pledge of 

truth ; 
How many an eve, their linked names 

to spell, 
Beneath the yew-trees sat our village 

youth ! 
When work was over, and the new-cut 

hay 
Sent wafts of balm from meadows where 

it lay. 

Ah ! many an eve, while I was yet a 

boy, 
Some village hind has beckoned me 

aside. 
And sought mine aid, with shy and 

awkward joy. 
To carve the letters of his rustic b ide, 
And make them clear to read as graven 

stone. 
Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside 

his own. 

for none could carve like me, and here 
they stand, 
Fathers and mothers of the present 
race ; 



And underscored by some less practised 

hand. 
That fain the story of its line would 

trace, 
With children's names, and number, 

and the day 
When any called to God have passed 

away. 

I look upon them, and I turn aside, 
As oft vvlien carving them I did ere- 

while ; 
And there I see those wooden bridges 

wide 
That cross the marshy hollow ; there 

the stile 
In reeds imbedded, and the swelling 

down, 
And the white road toward the distant 

town. 

But. those old bridges claim another 

look. 
Our brattling river tumbles through 

the one ; 
The second spans a shallow, weedy 

brook ; 
Beneath the others, and beneath the 

sun, 
Lie two long stilly pools, and on their 

breasts 
Picture their wooden piles, encased in 

swallows' nests. 

And round about them grows a fringe 
of reeds, 
And then a floating crown of lily 
flowers. 

And yet within small silver-budded 
weeds ; 
But each clear centre evermore em- 
bowers 

A deeper sky, where, stooping, you 
may see 

The little minnows darting restlessly. 

My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet ; 
Why did the dewdrop friuge your 
chalices ? 
Why in your beauty are you thus com- 
plete. 
You silver ships — you floating pal- 
aces? 



78 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



O! if need be, you must allure man's 

eye, 
Yet wherefore blossom here ? O why ? 

O why ? 

O ! O ! the world is wide, you lily 

flowers, 
It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly 

pools. 
Where every night bathe crowds of 

stars ; and bowers 
Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools 
And shakes the lilies among those stars 

that lie : 
Why are not ye content to reign there ? 

Why ? 

That chain of bridges, it were hard to 

tell 
How it is linked with all my early joy. 
There was a little foot that I loved well, 
It danced across them when I was a 

boy; 
There was a careless voice that used to 

sing ; 
There was a child, a sweet and happy 

thing. 

Oft through that matted wood of oak 

and birch 
She came from yonder house upon 

the hill ; 
She crossed the wooden bridges to the 

church, 
And watched, with village girls, my 

boasted skill : 
But loved to watch the floating lilies 

best, 
Or linger, peering in a swallow's nest ; 

Linger and linger, with her wistful 
eyes 
Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so 
wiiite 

And soft on crimson water ; for the 
skies 
Would crimson, and the little cloud- 
lets bright 

Would all be flung among the flowers 
sheer down. 

To flush the spaces of their clustering 
crown. 



Till the green rushes — O, so 
green — 
The rushes, they would whisper, 
rustle, shake ; 

And forth on floating gauze, no jew- 
elled queen 
So rich, the green-eyed dragon-flies 
would break. 

And hover on the flowers — aerial 
things, 

With little rainbows flickering on their 
wings. 

Ah ! my heart dear ! the polished pools 

lie still, 
Like lanes of water reddened by the 

west, 
Till, swooping down from yon o'er- 

hanging hill, 
The bold mai'sh harrier wets her 

tawny breast ; 
We scared her oft in childhood from 

her prey. 
And the old eager thoughts rise fresh 

as yesterday. 

To yonder copse by moonlight I did go, 

In luxury of mischief, half afraid. 
To steal the great owl's brood, her 

downy snow. 
Her screaming imps to seize, the 

while she preyed 
With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant 

glare. 
Fell with their mother rage, I might 

not dare. 



Panting I lay till her great fanning wings 
Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, 
slumbering nigh, 
And she and her fierce mate, like evil 
things. 
Skimmed the dusk fields ; then rising, 
with a cry 
Of fear, joy, triumph, darted on my 

prey, 
And tore it from the nest and fled away. 

But afterward, belated in the w-ood, 

I saw her moping on the rifled tree, 
And my heart smote me for her, while 
I stood 
. Awakened from, my careless reverie ; 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



79 



So white she looked, with moonlight 

round her shed, 
So motherlike she drooped and hung 

her head. 



O that mine eyes would cheat me ! I 

behold 
The godwits running by the water 

edge, 
The mossy bridges mirrored as of old ; 
The little curlews creeping from the 

sedge, 
But not tlie little foot so gayly light : 
O that mine eyes would cheat me, that 

I might ! — 

Would cheat me ! I behold the gable- 
ends — 
Those purple pigeons clustering on 
the cote ; 

The lane with maples overhung, that 
bends 
Toward her dwelling ; the dry grassy 
moat. 

Thick muliions, diamond-latticed, 
mossed and grey. 

And walls banked up with laurel and 
with bay. 



And up behind them yellow fields of 
corn, 
And still ascending countless firry 
spires, 

Dry slopes of hills uncultured, bare, 
forlorn. 
And green in rocky clefts with whins 
and briars ; 

Then rich cloud masses dyed the vio- 
let's hue, 

With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly 
through. 

Ay, I behold all this full easily ; 

My soul is jealous of my happier eyes, 
And manhood envies youth. Ah, 
strange to see, 
By looking merely, orange-flooded 
skies ; 
Nay, any dew-drop that may near me 

shine : 
But never more the face of Eglantine ! 



She was my one companion, being 

herself 
The jewel and adornment of my days, 
My life's completeness. O, a smiling elf, 
That I do but disparage with my 

praise — 
My playmate ; and I loved her dearly 

and long, 
And she loved me, as the tender love 

the strong. 

Ay, but she grew, till on a time there 
came 
A sudden restless yearning to my 
heart ; 
And as we went a-nesting, all for shame 
And shyness, I did hold my peace, 
and start ; 
Content departed, comfort shut me out, 
And there was nothing left to talk about. 

She had but sixteen years, and as for me, 
Four added made my life. This 
pretty bird, 

This fairy bird that I had cherished — 
she, 
Content, had sung, while I, con- 
tented, heard. 

The song had ceased; the bird, with 
nature's art. 

Had brought a thorn and set it in my 
heart. 

The restless birth of love my soul op- 

prest ; 
I longed and wrestled for a tranquil 

day, 
And warred with that disquiet in my 

breast 
As one who knows there is a better 

way ; 
But, turned against myself, I still in vain 
Looked for the ancient calm to come 

again. 

My tired soul could to itself confess 
That she deserved a wiser love than 
mine ; 
To love more truly were to love her less, 
And for this truth I still awoke to 
pine : 
I had a dim belief that it would be 
A better thing for her, a blessed thing 
for me. 



8o 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Good hast Thou made them — com- 
forters right sweet ; 
Good hast Thou made the world, to 
mankind lent ; 

Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed 
the wheat ; 
Good are Thy stars above the firma- 
ment. 

Take to Thee, take, Thy worship. Thy 
renown ; 

The good which Thou hast made doth 
wear Thy crown. 

For, O my God, Thy creatures are so 

frail, 
Thy bountiful creation is so fair. 
That, drawn before us like the temple 

veil. 
It hides the Holy Place from thought 

and care, 
Giving man's eyes instead its sweeping 

fold, 
Rich as with cherub wings and apples 

wrought of gold, 

Purple and blue and scarlet — shimmer- 
ing bells 
And rare pomegranates on its broid- 
ered rim. 
Glorious with chain and fret work that 
the swell 
Of incense shakes to music dreamy 
and dim, 
Till on a day comes loss, that God 

makes gain. 
And death and darkness rend the veil 
in twain. 
****** 

Ah, sweetest! my beloved! each out- 
ward thing 
Recalls my youth, and is instinct with 
thee ; 

Brown wood-owls in the dusk, with 
noiseless wing, 
Float from yon hanger to their 
haunted tree, 

And hoot full softly. Listening, I re- 
gain 

A flashing thought of thee with their 
remembered strain. 

I will not pine — it is the careless brook. 
These amber sunbeams slanting down 
the vale ; 



It is the long tree-shadows, with their 

look 
Of natural peace, that make my heart 

to fail : 
The peace of nature — No, I will not 

pine — 
But O the contrast 'twixt her face and 

mine ! 



And still I changed — I was a boy no 
more ; 
My heart was large enough to hold 
my kind. 

And all the world. As hath been oft 
before 
With youth, I sought, but I could 
never find 

Work hard enough to quiet my self- 
strife, 

And use the strength of action-craving 
life. 



She, too, was changed : her bountiful 

sweet eyes 
Looked out full lovhigly on all the 

world. 
O tender as the deeps in yonder skies 
Their beaming ! but her rosebud lips 

were curled 
With the soft dimpleof a musing smile, 
Which kept my gaze, but held me mute 

the while. 



A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain, 
The scent of bean-flowers wafted up 
a dell, 

Blue pigeons wheeling over fields of 
grain, 
Or bleat of folded lamb, would please 
her well, 

Or cooing of the early coted dove ; — 

She, satuitering, mused of these ; I, fol- 
lowing, mused of love. 



With her two lips, that one the other 
pressed 
So poutingly with such a tranquil air, 
With her two eyes, that on my own 
would rest 
So dream-like, she denied my silent 
prayer, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Fronted unuttered words, and said them 

nay, 
And smiled down love till it had nought 

to say. 

The words that tlirough mine eyes 
would clearly shine 
Hovered and hovered on my lips in 
vain ; 

If after pause I said but " Eglantine," 
She raised to me her quiet eyelids 
twain, 

And looked me this reply — look calm, 
yet bland — 

" I shall not know, I will not under- 
stand." 

Yet she did know my story — knew my 

life 
Was wrought to hers with bindings 

many and strong : 
That I, like Israel, served for a wife, 
And for the love 1 bare her thought 

not long. 
But only a few days, full quickly told, 
My seven years' service strict as his of 

old. 

I must be brief : the twilight shadows 
grow, 
And steal the rose-blooni genial sum- 
mer sheds, 
And scented wafts of wind that come 
and go 
Have lifted dew from honeyed clover- 
heads ; 
The seven stars shine out above the mill, 
The dark delightsome woods lie veiled 
and still. 

Hush ! hush ! the nightingale begins 

to sing, 
And stops, as ill contented with her 

note ; 
Then breaks from out the bush with 

hurried \\ing, 
Restless and passionate. She tunes 

her tiiroat. 
Laments a while in wavering trills, and 

then 
Floods with a stream of sweetness all 

the glen. 



The seven stars upon the nearest pool 
Lie trembling down betwixt the lily 

leaves, 
And move like glowworms ; wafting 

breezes cool 
Come down along the water, and it 

heaves 
And bubbles in the sedge ; while deep 

and wide 
The dim night settles on the country 

side. 

I know this scene by heart. O! once 

before 
I saw the seven stars float to and fro, 
And stayed my hurried footsteps by the 

shore 
To mark the starry picture spread 

below : 
Its silence made the tumult in my breast 
More audible ; its peace revealed my 

own unrest. 

I paused, then hurried on ; my heart 

beat quick ; 
I crossed the bridges, reached the 

steep ascent. 
And climbed through matted fern and 

hazels thick ; 
Then darkling through the close green 

maples went. 
And saw — there felt love's keenest 

pangs begin — 
An oriel window lighted from within : 



I saw — and felt that they were scarcely 
cares 
Which I had known before. I drew 
more near. 

And O ! methought how sore it frets 
and wears 
The soul to part with that it holds so 
dear: 

'Tis hard two woven tendrils to un- 
twine. 

And I was come to part with Eglantine. 



For life was bitter through those words 
repressed. 
And youth was burdened with un- 
spoken vows ; 



82 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Love unrequited brooded in my breast, 
And shrank, at glance, from the be- 
loved brows ; 

And three long mouths, heart-sick, my 
foot wivhdra^\1J, 

I had not sought her side by rivulet, 
copse, or lawn — 

Not sought her side, yet busy thought 

no less 
Still followed in her wake, though far 

behind ; 
And I, being parted from her loveliness, 
Looked at the picture of her m my 

mind : 
I lived alone, I walked with soul op- 

prest. 
And ever sighed for her, and sighed for 

rest. 

Then I had risen to struggle with my 

heart. 
And said: "O heart! the world is 

fresh and fair, 
And I am young ; but this thy restless 

smart 
Changes to bitterness the morning 

air: 
I will, I must, these weary fetters 

break — 
I will be free, if only for her sake. 

" O let me trouble her no more with 

sighs ! 
Heart-healing comes by distance and 

with time : 
Then let me wander, and enrich mine 

eyes 
With the green forests of a softer 

clime. 
Or list by night at sea the wind's low 

stave 
And long monotonous rockings of the 

wave. 

"Through open solitudes, unbounded 
meads. 
Where, wading on breast-high in yel- 
low bloom, 
Untamed of man, the shy white llama 
feeds — 
There would I journey and forget my 
doom; 



Or far, O far as sunrise I would see 
The level prairie stretch away from 
me! 

"Or I would sail upon the tropic seas, 
Where fathom long the blood-red. 

dulses grow. 
Droop from the rock and waver in the 

breeze. 
Lashing the tide to foam ; while calm 

below 
The muddy mandrakes throng those 

waters warm. 
And purple, gold, and green, the living; 

blossoms swarm." 

So of my father I did win consent, 
With importunities repeated long. 

To make that duty which had been my 
bent< 
To dig with strangers alien tombs 
among. 

And bound to them through desert 
leagues to pace. 

Or track up rivers to their starting- 
place. 

For this I had done battle and had won, 

But not alone to tread Arabian sands. 

Measure the shadows of a southern sun, 

Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian 

lands ; 

But for the dream wherewith I thought 

to cope — 
The grief of love unmated with love's 
hope. 

And now I would set reason in an-ay, 
Methought, and fight for freedom 

manfully. 
Till by long absence there would come 

a day 
When this my love would not be pain 

to me ; 
But if 1 knew my rosebud fair and blest 
I should not pme to wear it on my 

breast. 

The davs fled on ; another week should 
fling 
A foreign shadow on my lengthening 
way; 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



83 



Another week, yet nearness did not 

bring 
A braver lieart that hard farewell to 

say. 
I let the last day wane, the dusk begin, 
Ere I had sought that window lighted 

from within. 

Sinking and sinking, O my heart! my 

heart! 
Will absence heal thee whom its 

shade doth rend? 
I reached the little gate, and soft within 
The oriel fell her shadow. She did 

lend 
Her loveliness to me, and let me share 
The listless sweetness of those features 

fair. 

Among thick laurels in the gathering 
gloom, 
Heavy for this our parting, I did 
stand ; 

Beside her mother in the lighted room, 
She sitting leaned her cheek upon 
her hand ; 

And as she read, her sweet voice, float- 
ing through 

The open casement, seemed to mourn 
me an adieu. 

Youth ! youth ! how buoyant are thy 

hopes !" they turn. 
Like marigolds, toward the sunny 

side. 
My hopes were buried in a funeral 

urn. 
And they sprang up like plants and 

spread them wide ; 
Though I had schooled and reasoned 

them away, 
They gathered smiling near and prayed 

a holiday. 

Ah, sweetest voice ! how pensive were 
its tones. 
And how regretful its unconscious 
pause ! 
" Is it for me her heart this sadness 
owns, 
And is our parting of to-night the 
cause ? 



Ah, would it might be so! " I thought, 
and stood 

Listening entranced among the under- 
wood. 

I thought it would be something worth 

the pain 
Of parting, to look once in those deep 

eyes. 
And take from them an answering look 

again. 
" When eastern palms," I thought, 

" about me rise, 
If I might carve our names upon the 

rind, 
Betrothed, I would not mourn, though 

leaving thee behind." 



I can be patient, faitliful, and most fond 
To unacknowledged love ; I can be 

true 
To this sweet thraldom, this unequal 

bond. 
This yoke of mine that reaches not 

to you : 
O, how much more could costly parting 

buy — 
'If not a pledge, one kiss, or, failing that, 

a sigh ! 

I listened, and she ceased to read ; she 
turned 
Her face toward the laurels where I 
stood : 

Her mother spoke — O wonder I hardly 
learned ; 
She said, " There is a rustling in the 
wood ; 

Ah, child ! if one draw near to bid fare- 
well, 

Let not thine eyes an unsought secret 
tell. 

" My daughter, there is nothing held so 
dear 
As love, if only it be hard to win. 
The roses that in yonder hedge appear 
Outdo our garden-buds which bloom 
within ; 
But since the hand may pluck them 

every day, 
Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and 
drift away. 



84 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



" My daughter, my beloved, be not 
you 
Like those same roses." O bewilder- 
ing word ! 

My heart stood still, a mist obscured 
my view : 
It cleared ; still silence. No denial 
stirred 

The lips beloved ; but straight, as one 
opprest, 

She, kneeling, dropped her face upon 
her mother's breast. 

This said, "My daughter, sorrow 

comes to all ; 
Our life is checked with shadows 

manifold : 
But woman has this more — she may 

not call 
Her sorrow by its name. Yet love 

not told, 
And only born of absence and by 

thought. 
With thought and absence may return 

to nought." 

And my beloved lifted up her face, 
And moved her lips as if about to 

speak ; 
She dropped her lashes with a girlish 

grace, 
And the rich damask mantled in her 

cheek : 
I stood awaiting till she should deny 
Her love, or with sweet laughter put it 

by. 

But, closer nestling to her mother's 

heart, 
She, blushing, said no word to break 

my trance, 
For I was breathless ; and, with lips 

apart. 
Felt my breast pant and all my pulses 

dance. 
And strove to move, but could not for 

the weight 
Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so 

great. 

Because she loved me. With a mighty 
sigh 
Breaking away, I left her on her 
knees, 



And blest the laurel bower, the dark- 
ened sky, 
The sultry night of August. Through 
the trees, 

Giddy with gladness, to the porch I 
went. 

And hardly found the way for joyful 
wonderment. 

Yet, when I entered, saw her mother 
sit 
With both hands cherishing the 
graceful head. 

Smoothing the clustered hair, and part- 
ing it 
From the fair brow ; she, rising, only 
said. 

In the accustomed tone, the accustomed 
word. 

The careless greeting that I always 
heard ; 

And she resumed her merry, mocking 
smile. 
Though tear-drops on the glistening 
lashes hung. 

O woman ! thou wert fashioned to be- 
guile ; 
So have all sages said, all poets sung. 

She spoke of favoring winds and wait- 
ing ships. 

With smiles of gratulation on her lips! 

And then she looked and faltered : I 

had grown 

So suddenly in life and soul a man : 

She moved her lips, but could not find 

a tone 

To set her mocking music to ; began 

One struggle for dominion, raised her 

eyes, 
And straight withdrew them, bashful 
through surprise. 

The color over cheek and bosom 
flushed ; 
I might have heard the beating of her 
heart, 
But that mine own beat louder ; when 
she blushed. 
The hand within mine own I felt taj 
start, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



But would not change my pitiless de- 
cree 

I'd strive with her for might and mas- 
tery. 



She looked again, as one that, half 
afraid. 
Would fain be certain of a doubtful 
thing; 

Or one beseeching, " Do not me up- 
braid! " 
And then she trembled like the flut- 
tering 

Of timid little birds, and silent stood. 

No smile wherewith to mock my hardi- 
hood. 



She turned, and to an open casement 

moved 
With girlish shyness, mute beneath 

my gaze. 
And I on downcast lashes unreproved 
Could look as long as pleased me ; 

while, the rays 
Of moonlight round her, she her fair 

head bent, 
In modest silence to my words attent. 

How fast the giddy whirling moments 
flew ! 
The moon had set ; I heard the 
midnight chime ; 

Hope is more brave than fear, and joy 
than dread, 
i And I could wait unmoved the part- 
ing time. 

[t came ; for by a sudden impulse drawn, 

She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky 
lawn. 

A. little waxen taper in her hand. 
Her feet upon the dry and dewless 

grass, 
5he looked like one of the celestial 

band, 
Only tliat on her cheeks did dawn 

and pass 
Most human blushes ; while, the soft 

light thrown 
!)n vesture pure and white, she seemed 

yet fairer grown. 



Her mother, looking out toward her, 
sighed. 
Then gave her hand in token of fare- 
well. 

And with her warning eyes, that seemed 
to chide. 
Scarce suffered that I sought her 
child to tell 

The story of my life, whose every line 

No other burden bore than — Eglan- 
tine. 

Black thunder-clouds were rising up 

behind. 
The waxen taper burned full steadily ; 
It seemed as if dark midnight had a 

mind 
To hear what lovers say, and her 

decree 
Had passed for silence, while she, 

drojiped to ground 
With raiment floating wide, drank in 

the sound. 

happiness! thou dost not leave a 

trace 
So well defined as sorrow. Amber 
light. 
Shed like a glorjs on her angel face, 

1 can remember fully, and the sight 
Of her fair forehead and her shining 

eyes. 
And lips that smiled in sweet and girl- 
ish wise. 

1 can remember how the taper played 
Over her small hands and her vest- 
ure white ; 

How it struck up into the trees, and laid 
Upon their under leaves unwonted 

light ; 
And when she held it low, how far it 

spread 
O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their 

bed. 

I can remember that we spoke full low, 
That neither doubted of the other's 
truth ; 
And that with footsteps slower and 
more slow, 
Hands folded close for love, eyes wet 
for ruth : 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's 

flame, 
We -wandered till the gate of parting 

came. 

But I forget the parting words she said. 
So much they thrilled the all-atten- 
tive soul ; 

For one short moment human heart and 
head 
May bear such bliss — its present is 
the whole : 

I had that present, till in whispers fell 

With parting gesture her subdued fare- 
well. 

"Farewell !" she said, in act to turn 

away, 
But stood a moment still to dry her 

tears. 
And suffered my enfolding arm to stay 
The time of her departure. O ye 

years 
That intervene betwixt that day and 

this ! 
Vou all received your hue from that 

keen pain and bliss. 

O mingled pain and bliss! O pain to 
break 
At once from happiness so lately 
found, 

And four long years to feel for her sweet 
sake 
The incompleteness of all sight and 
sound ! 

But bliss to cross once more the foam- 
ing brine — 

bliss to come again and make her 

mine. 

1 cannot — O, I cannot more recall! 
But I will soothe my troubled 

thoughts to rest 
With musing over journeyings wide, 

and all 
Observance of this active-humored 

west, 
And swarming cities steeped in eastern 

day, 
With swarthy tribes in gold and striped 

array. 



I turn from these, and straight there 

will succeed 
(Shifting and changing at the restless 

will). 
Imbedded in some deep Circassian 

mead. 
White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat 

their fill 
Unseen above, while comely shepherds 

pass. 
And scarcely show their heads above 

the grass. 

— The red Sahara in an angry glow, 
With amber fogs, across its hollows 

trailed 
Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed 

and slow, 
And women on their necks, from 

gazers veiled. 
And sun-swart guides who toil across 

the sand 
To groves of date-trees on the watered 

land. 

Again — the brown sails of an Arab 

boat, 
Flapping by night upon a glassy sea. 
Whereon the moon and planets seem 

to float. 
More bright of hue than they were 

wont to be, 
While shooting-stars rain down with 

crackling sound. 
And, thick as swarming locusts, drop 

to ground. 

Or far into the heat among the sands 
The gembok nations, snuffing up the 
wind, 

Drawn by the scent of water — and the 
bands 

Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blin4 
With the sun-dazzle "in their midst, op* 

prest 
With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest ! 

What more ? Old Lebanon, the frosty- 
browed, 

Setting his feet among oil-olive trees, 
Heaving his bare brown shoulder 
through a cloud ; 
And after, grassy Carmel, purple 
seas, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



«7 



Flattering his dreams and echoing in 

his rocks, 
Soft as the bleating of his thousand 

flocks. 



Enough : how vain this thinking to 

beguile, 
With recollected scenes, an aching 

breast ! 
Did not I, journeying, muse on her the 

while ? 
Ah, yes ! for every landscape comes 

impressed — 
Ay, written on, as by dn iron pen — 
With the same thought I nursed about 

her then. 



Therefore let memory turn again to 
home ; 
Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing 
near ; 

Watch the green breakers and the wind- 
tossed foam. 
And see the land-fog break, dissolve, 
and clear ; 

Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter 
sound 

Than ever thrilled but over English 
ground ; 

And walk, glad, even to tears, among 
the wlieat. 
Not doubting this to be the first of 
lands ; 

And, while in foreign words this mur- 
muring, meet 
Some little village school-girls (with 
their hands 

Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting 
me, 

I count their English talk delightsome 
melody ; 

And seat me on a bank, and draw them 
near, 
That I may feast myself with hear- 
ing it, 
Till shortly they forget their bashful 
fear, 
Push back their flaxen curls, and 
round me sit — 



Tell me their names, their daily tasks, 

and show 
Where wild wood strawberries in the 

copses grow. 



So passed the day in this delightsome 
land : 
My heart was thankful for the Eng- 
lish tongue — 

For English sky with feathery cloudlets 
spanned — 
For English hedge with glistening 
dewdrops hung. 

I journeyed, and at glowing eventide 

Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside. 



That night I slumbered sweetly, being 
right glad 
To miss the flapping of the shrouds ; 
but lo ! 

A quiet dream of beings twain I had. 
Behind the curtain talking soft and 
low: 

Methought I did not heed their utter- 
ance fine. 

Till one of them said softly, " Eglan- 
tine." 



I started up awake, 'twas silence all : 
My own fond heart had shaped that 
utterance clear ; 

And " Ah! " methought, "how sweetly 
did it fall. 
Though but in dream, upon tne listen- 
ing ear ! 

How sweet from other lips the name 
well known — 

That name, so many a year heard only 
from mine own! " 



I thought awhile, then slumber came to 

me, 
And tangled all my fancy in her maze. 
And I was drifting on a raft at sea. 
The near all ocean, and the far all 

haze ; 
Through the white polished water 

sharks did glide. 
And up in heaven I saw no stars to 

guide. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



" Have mercy, God ! " but lo ! my raft 

uprose ; 
Drip, drip, I heard the water splash 

from it ; 
My raft had wings, and as the petrel 

goes. 
It skimmed the sea, then brooding 

seemed to sit 
The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden 

spring, _ _ 

It flew straight upward like a living 

thing. 

But strange ! — I went not also in that 

flight, 
For I was entering at a cavern's 

mouth ; 
Trees grew within, and screaming birds 

of night 
Sat on them, hiding from the torrid 

south. 
On, on I went, while gleaming in the 

dark 
Those trees with blanchM leaves stood 

pale and stark. 

The trees had flower-buds, nourished 
in deep night, 
And suddenly, as I went farther in, 

They opened, and they shot out lam- 
bent light ; 
Then all at once arose a railing din 

That frighted me : " It is the ghosts," 
I said, 

"And they are railing for their darkness 
fled. 

•' I hope they will not look me in the 

face ; 
It frighteth me to hear their laughter 

loud ;" 
I saw them troop before with jaunty 

pace. 
And one would shake off dust that 

soiled her shroud: 
But now, O joy unhoped ! to calm my 

dread, 
Some moonlight filtered through a cleft 

o'erhead. 

I climbed the lofty trees — the blanched 
trees — 
The cleft was wide enough to let me 
through ; 



I clambered out and felt the balmy 
breeze, 
And stepped on churchyard grasses 
wet ivith dew. 

happy chance ! O fortune to admire ! 

1 stood beside my own loved village 

spire . • 

And as I gazed upon the yew-tree' S 

trunk, 
Lo, far-off music — music in the night ! 
So sweet and tender as it swelled and 

sunk ; 
It charmed me till I wept with keen 

delight, 
And in my dream, methought as it drew 

near 
The very clouds in heaven stooped low 

to hear. 

Beat high, beat low, wild heart so 
deeply stirred. 
For high as heaven runs up the 
piercing strain ; 
The restless music fluttering like a bird 
Bemoaned herself, and dropped to 
earth again, 
Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid 
That I should die of grief when it did 
fade. 

And it Diu fade ; but while with eager 

ear 

I drank its last long echo dying away, 

I was aware of footsteps that drew near, 

And round the ivied chancel seemed 

to stray : 

O, soft above the hallowed place they 

trod — 
Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod! 

I turned — ' twas even so — yes, Eglan- 
tine ! 
For at the first I had divined the 
same ; 

I saw the moon on her shut eyelids 
shine. 
And said, " She is asleep : " still on 
she came ; 

Then, ,pu her dimpled feet, I saw it 
gleam, 

And thought, " I know that this is 
but a dream." 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



89 



My darling! O my darling! not the less 
My dream went on because 1 knew 
it such : 

She came towards me in her loveli- 
ness — 
A thing too pure, methought, for 
mortal touch ; 

The rippling gold did on her bosom 
meet, 

The long white robe descended to her 
feet. 

The fringed lids dropped low, as sleep- 
oppressed ; 
Her dreamy smile was very fair to see, 

And her two hands were folded to her 
breast, 
With somewhat held between them 
heedfully. 

O fast asleep ! and yet methought she 
knew 

And felt my nearness those shut eyelids 
through. 

She sighed : my tears ran down for 
tenderness — 
" And have I drawn thee to me in 
my sleep ? 
"Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, 
Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses 
deep ? 

if this be! " I said — "yet speak to 

me; 

1 blame my very dream for cruelty." 

Then from her stainless bosom she did 

take 
Two beauteous lily flowers that lay 

therein. 
And with slow-moving lips a gesture 

make, 
As one that some forgotten words 

doth win : 
" They floated on the pool," methought 

she said, 
And water trickled from each lily's 

head. 

It dropped upon her feet — I saw it 
gleam 
Along the ripples of her yellow hair, 
And stood apart, for only in a dream 
She would have come, methought, to 
meet me there. 



She spoke again — " Ah fair ! ah fresh 

they shine ! 
And there are many left, and these are 

mine." 

I answered her with flattering accents 

meet — 
" Love, they are whitest lilies e'er 

were blown." 
"And sayest thou so? " she sighed in 

murmurs sweet ; 
" I have nought else to give thee now, 

mine own ! 
For it is night. Then take them, 

love ! " said she : 
" They have been costly flowers to thee 

— and me." 

While thus she said I took them from 
her hand. 
And, overcome with love and near- 
ness, woke ; 

And overcome with ruth that she should 
stand 
Barefooted on the grass ; that, when 
she spoke. 

Her mystic words should take so sweet 
a tone, 

And of all names her lips should choose 
" My own." 

I rose, I journeyed, neared my home, 

and soon 
Beheld the spire peer out above the 

hill: 
It was a sunny harvest afternoon. 
When by the churchyard wicket, 

standing still, 
I cast my eager eyes abroad to know 
If change had touched the scenes of 

long ago. 

I looked across the hollow ; sunbeams 
shone 
Upon the old house with the gable- 
ends : 

" Save that the laurel-trees are taller 
grown, 
No change," methought, " to its grey 
wall extends. 

What clear bright beams on yonder lat- 
tice shine ! 

There did I sometime talk with Eglan- 
tine.' 



go MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 



There standing with my very goal in 
sight, 
Over my haste did sudden quiet steal ; 

I thought to dally with my own de- 
light, 
Nor rush on headlong to my garnered 
weal. 

But taste the sweetness of a short delay, 

And for a little moment hold the bliss 
at bay. 

The church was open ; It perchance 

might be 
That there to offer thanks I might 

essay, 
Or rather, as I think, that I might see 
The place where Eglantine was wont 

to pray. 
But so it was; I crossed that portal 

wide, 
And felt my riot joy to calm subside. 

The low depending curtains, gently 

swayed. 
Cast over arch and roof a crimson 

glow; 
But, ne'ertheless, all silence and all 

shade 
It seemed, save only for the rippling 

flow 
Of their long foldings, when the sunset 

air 
Sighed through the casements of the 

house of prayer. 

I found her place, the ancient oaken 

stall, 
Where in her childhood I had seen 

her sit. 
Most saint-like and most tranquil there 

of all, 
, Folding her hands, as if a dreaming 

fit — 
A heavenly vision had before her 

strayed 
Of the Eternal Child in lowly manger 

laid. 

I saw her prayer-book laid upon the 
seat, 
And took it in my hand, and felt 
more near 



In fancy to her, finding it most sweet 
To think how very oft, low kneeling 

here, 
In her devout thoughts she had let me 

share, 
And set my graceless name in her pure 

prayer. 

My eyes were dazzled with delightful 

tears — 
In sooth they were the last I ever 

shed ; 
For with them fell the cherished dreams 

of years. 
I looked, and on the wall above my 

head, 
Over her seat, there was a tablet 

placed, 
With one word only on the marble 

traced. — 

Ah, well! I would not overStafe that 
woe, 
For I have had some blessings, little 
care ; 
But since the falling of that hea^'y blow, 
God's earth has never seemed to me 
■ so fair ; 
Nor any of His creatures so divine, 
Nor sleep so sweet : — the word was — 
Eglantine. 



A MOTHER SHOWING THE 
PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 

(f. m. l.) 

Living Child or pictured cherub 
Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace ; 

And the mother, moving nearer, 
Looked it calmly in the face ; 

Then with slight and quiet gesture, 
And with lips that scarcely smiled, 

Said, " A Portrait of my daughter 
When she was a child." 

Easy thought was hers to fathom, 
Nothing hard her glance to read, 

For it seemed to say, " No praises 
For this little child I need ; 



MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 91 



If you see, I see far better, 

And 1 will not feign to care 
For a stranger's prompt assurance 
That the face is fair." 



Softly clasped and half extended. 
She her dimpled hands doth lay : 

So they doubtless placed them, saymg, 
" Little one, you must not play." 

And while yet his work was growing. 
This the painter's hand haih shown, 

That the little heart was making 
Pictures of its own. 



Is it warm in that green valley. 

Vale of childhood, where you dwell? 
Is it calm in that green valley, 
Round whose bourns such great 
hills swell? 
Are there giants in the valley — 
Giants leaving footprints yet? 
Are there angels in the valley ? 
Tell me — I forget. 



Answer, answer, for the lilies, 
Little one, o'ertop you much, 

And the mealy gold within them 
You can scarcely reach to touch ; 

O how far their aspect differs, 
Looking up and looking down! 

Vou look up in that green valley — 
Valley of renown. 

Are there voices in the valley, 
Lying near the heavenly gate? 

Wlien it opens, do the harp-strings, 
Touched within, reverberate ? 

When, like shooting-stars, the angels 
To your couch at nightfall go, 

Are their swift wings heard to rustle ? 
Tell me ! for you know. 



Yes, you know ; and yofi are silent. 
Not a word shall asking win ; 

Little mouth more sweet than rosebud, 
Fast it locks the secret in. 

Not a glimpse upon your jjresent 
You unfold to glad my view ; 

Ah, what secrets of your future 
1 could tell to you ! 



Sunny ]iresent ! thus I read it. 
By remembrance of my past : — 

Its to-day and its to-morrow 
Are as lifetimes vague and vast ; 

And each face in that green valiey 
Takes for you an aspect mild. 

And each voice grows soft in saying, 
"Kiss me, little child! " 

As a boon the kiss is granted : 
Baby mouth, your touch is sweet, 

Takes the love without the trouble 
From those lips that with it meet ; 

Gives the love, O pure! O tender! 
Of the valley where it grows. 

But the baby heart receiveth 
More than it bestows. 

Comes the future to the present — 
"Ah!" she saith, "too bhthe of 
mood ; 
Why that smile which seems to whis- 
per — 
' I am happy, God is good?' 
God is good : that tru'.h eternal 

Sown for you in ha]:>pier years, 
I must tend it in my shadow, 
Water it with tears. 



"Ah, sweet present! I must lead thee 

By a daylight more subdued ; 
There must teach thee low to whis- 
per — 
' I am mournful, God is good ! ' " 
Peace, thou future! clouds are coming, 

Stooping from the mountain crest. 
But that sunshine floods the valley : 
Let her — let her rest. 



Comes the future to the present — 
"Child," she saith, "and wilt thou 
rest ? 
How long, child, before thy footsteps 

Fret to reach yon cloudy crest? 
Ah, the valley! — angels guard it. 

But the heights are brave to see ; 
Looking down were long contentment; 
Come up, child, to me." 

So she speaks, but do not heed her, 
Little maid with wondrous eyes. 

Not afraid, but clear and tender, 
Blue, and filled with prophecies ; 



92 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 



Thou for whom life's veil unlifted 

Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold, 
Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth — 
Climb, but heights are cold. 



There are buds that fold within them, 
Closed and covered from our sight, 

Many a richly-tinted petal, 
Never looked on by the light ; 

Fain to see their shrouded faces, 
Sun and dew are long at strife, 

Till at length the sweet buds open — 
Such a bud is life. 



When the rose of thine own being 
Shall reveal its central fold. 

Thou shalt look within and marvel, 
Fearing what thine eyes behold ; 

What it shows and what it teaches 
Are not things wherewith to part ; 

Thorny rose ! that always costeth 
Beatings at the heart. 



Look in fear, for there is dimness ; 

Ills unshapen float anigh. 
Look in awe : for this same nature 

Once the Godhead deigned to die. 
Look in love, for He doth love it, 

And its tale is best of lore : 

Still humanity grows dearer, 

Beinc learned the more. 



Learn, but not the less bethink thee 
How that all can mingle tears ; 

But his joy can none discover, 
Save to them that are his peers ; 

And that they whose lips do utter 
Language such as bards have sung- 

Lo ! their speech shall be to many 
As an unknown tongue. 



Learn, that if to thee the meaning 
Of all other eyes be s'lown, 

Fewer eyes can ever front thee, 
That are skilled to read thine own 

And that if thy love's deep current 
Many another's far outflows, 

Then thy heart must take for ever 
Less than it bestows. 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 

Written for The Portfolio Society, 
October, 1861. 

The yellow poplar leaves came down 

And like a carpet lay. 
No waftings were in the sunny air 

To flutter them away ; ' 
And he stepped on blithe and deb- 
onair 

That warm October day. 

"The boy," saith he, "hath got his 
own, 
But sore has been the fight, 
For ere his life began the strife 
That ceased but yesternight ; 
For the will," he said, ''the kinsfolk 
read. 
And read it not aright. 

" His cause was argued in the court 

Before his christening day ; 
And counsel was heard, and judge de- 
murred. 

And bitter waxed the fray ; 
Brotlier with brother spake no word 

When they met in the way. 

" Against each one did each contend. 

And all against the heir. 
I would not bend, for I knew the end — 

I have it for my share, 
And nought repent, though my first 
friend 

From henceforth I must spare. 

" Manor and moor and farm and wold 
Their greed begrudged him sore. 

And parchments old with passionate 
hold 
They guarded heretofore ; 

And they carped at signature and seal, 
But they may carp no more. 

" An old affront will stir the heart 
Tlirough years of rankling pain ; 

And 1 feel the fret that urged me yet 
That warfare to maintain ; 

For an enemy's loss may well be set 
Above an infant's gain. 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 



93 



"An enemy's loss I go to jDrove ; 

Laugh out, thou little heir! 
Laugh in his face who vowed to chase 

Thee from thy birthright fair ; 
For I come to set thee in thy place : 

Laugh out, and do not spare." 



A man of strife, in wrathful mood 
He neared the nurse's door ; 

With poplar leaves the roof and eaves 
Were thickly scattered o'er, 

And yellow as they a sunbeam lay 
Along the cottage floor. 



" Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," 
He hears the fond nurse say ; 

*' And if angels stand at thy right hand. 
As now belike they may. 

And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, 
I fear tiiem not this day. 



" Come wealth, come wai"4: to thee, 
dear heart. 

It was all one to me, 
For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung 

Than coined gold and fee ; 
And ever the while thy waking smile 

It was right fair to see. 

'' Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know 
Who grudged and who transgressed ; 

Thee to retain I was full fain. 
But God, He knoweth best ! 

And His peace upon thy brow lies plain 
As the sunshine on thy breast ! " 

The man of strife, he enters in, 
Looks, and his pride doth cease ; 

Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow 
Trouble, and no release ; 

But the babe whose life awoke the 
strife 
Hath entered into peace. 



I 



STORY OF DOOM, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



A STORY OF DOOM, AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME 
TRUE. 

I SAW in a vision once, our mother- 
spliere 
The world, her fixed foredoomed 
oval tracing. 
Rolling and rolling on and resting 
never, 
While like a phantom fell, behind 
her pacing 
The unfurled flag of night, her shadow 
drear 
Fled as she fled and hung to her 
forever. 

Great Heaven ! methought, how 
strange a doom to share. 
Would I may never bear 
Inevitable darkness after me 
(Darkness endowed with drawings 
strong. 
And shadowy hands that cling un- 
endingly), 
Nor feel that phantom-wings behind 
me sweep. 
As she feels night pursuing through 
the long 
Illimitable reaches of "the vasty 
deep." 



God save you, gentlefolks. There was 

a man 
Who lay awake at midnight on his 

bed, [ran 

Watching the spiral flame that feeding 



Among the logs upon his hearth, and 
shed 

A comfortable glow, both warm and 
dim. 

On crimson curtains that encom- 
passed him. 

Right stately was his chamber, soft 
and white 
The pillow, and his quilt was eider- 
down. 

What mattered it to him through all 
that night 
The desolate driving cloud might 
lower and frown, 

And winds were up the eddying sleet 
to chase. 

That drave and drave and found no 
settling-place ? 

What mattered it that leafless trees 
might rock, 
Or snow might drift athwart his 
window-pane ? 

He bare a charmed life against their 
shock. 
Secure from cold, hunger, and weath- 
er stain ; 

Fixed in his right, and born to good 
estate, 

From common ills set by and separate. 

From work and want and fear of want 
apart, 
This man (men called hun Justice 
Wilvermore) — 



gs 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



This man had comforted his cheerful 

heart 
With all that it desired from every 

shore. 
He had a right, — the right of gold is 

strong, — 
He stood upon his right his whole life 

long. 

Custom makes all things easy, and 

content 
Is careless, therefore on the storm 

and cold, 
As he lay waking, never a thought he 

spent. 
Albeit across the vale beneath the 

wold. 
Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, 
A range of sordid hovels stretched 

away. 

What cause had he to think on them, 

forsooth ? 
What cause that night beyond another 

night ? 
He was familiar even from his youth 
With their long ruin and their evil 

plight. 
The wintry wind would search them 

like a scout, 
The water froze within as freely as 

without. 



He think upon them? No! They 
were forlorn. 
So were the cowering inmates whom 
they held ; 

A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness 
born, 
Ever complaining : infancy or eld 

Alike. But there was rent, or long ago 

Those cottage roofs had met with over- 
throw. 



For this they stood; and what his 
thoughts might be 
This winter night, I know not; but 
I know 
That, while the creeping flame fed 
silently 
And cast upon his bed a crimson 
glow, 



The Justice slept, and shortly In his 

sleep 
He fell to dreaming, and his dream was 

deep- 
He dreamed that over him a shadow 

came ; 
And when he looked to find the 

cause, behold 
Some person knelt between him and 

the flame : — 
A cowering figure of one frail and 

old,— 
A woman ; and she prayed as he de- 
scried, 
And spread her feeble hands, and 

shook and sighed. 



"Good Heaven!" the Justice cried, 

and being distraught 
He called not to her, but he looked 

again : 
She wore a tattered cloak, but she had 

naught 
Upon her head ; and she did quake 

amain, 
And spread her wasted hands and poor 

attire 
To gather in the brightness of his fire. 



*' I know you, woman ! " then the Jus- 
tice cried ; 
" I know that woman well," he cried 
aloud ; 

"The shepherd Aveland's widow: 
God me guide ! 
A pauper kneeling on my hearth : " 
and bowed 

The hag, like one at home, its warmth 
to share ! 

"How dares she to intrude? What 
does she here ? 

" Ho, woman, ho! " — but yet she did 
not stir, 
Though from her lips a fitful plaining 
broke ; 
"I'll ring my people up to deal with 
her; 
I'll rouse the house," he cried ; but 
while he spoke 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



99 



He turned, and saw, but distant from 

his bed, 
Another form, — a Darkness with a 

head. 

Then, in a rage, he shouted, " Who 
are you?" 
For little in the gloom he might dis- 
cern. 

'• Speak out ; speak now ; or I will 
make you rue 
The hour ! " but there was silence, 
and a stern, , 

Dark face from out the dusk appeared 
to lean, 

And then again drew back, and was 
not seen. 

" God ! " cried the dreaming man, 

right impiously, 
" What have I done, that these my 

sleep affray?" 
" God ! " said the Phantom, " I appeal 

to Thee, 
Appoint Thou me this man to be my 

prey." 
" God ! " sighed the kneeling woman, 

frail and old, 
" I pray Thee take me, for the world is 

cold." 

Then said the trembling Justice, in af- 
fright, 
" Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine 
errand here!" 

And lo! it pointed in the failing light 
Toward the woman, answering, cold 
and clear, _ 

" Thou art ordained an answer to thy 
prayer ; 

But first to tell her tale that kneeleth 
there." 

^'' Her tale!" the Justice cried. "A 
pauper's tale! " 
And he took heart at this so low be- 
hest, 

And let the stoutness of his will pre- 
vail. 
Demanding, " Is't for A^r you break 
my rest ? 

She went to jail of late for^ stealing 
wood, 

She will again for this night's hardihood. 



" I sent her ; and to-morrow, as I live, 
I will commit her for this trespass 
here." 
"Thou wilt not!" quoth the Shadow, 
" thou wilt give 
Her story words ; " and then it 
stalked anear 
And showed a lowering face, and, dread 

to see, 
A countenance of angered majesty. 

Then said the Justice, all his thoughts 
astray, 
With that material Darkness chiding 
him, 

" If this must be, then speak to her, I 
pray, 
And bid her move, for all the room 
is dim 

By reason of the place she holds to- 
night : 

She kneels between me and the warmth 
and light." 

'• With adjurations deep and drawings 

strong, 
And with the power," it said, " unto 

me given, 
I call upon thee, man, to tell thy 

wrong. 
Or look no more upon the face of 

Heaven. 
Speak ! though she kneel throughout 

the livelong night. 
And yet shall kneel between thee and 

the light." 

This when the Justice heard, he raised 

his hands, 
And held them as the dead in effigy 
Hold theirs, when carved upon a tomb. 

The bands 
Of fate had bound him fast : no 

remedy 
Was left: his voice unto himself was 

strange, 
And that unearthly vision did not 

change. 

He said, "That woman dwells anear 
my door, 
Her life and mine began the selfsame 
day, 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



And I am hale and hearty : from my 

store 
I never spared her aught : she takes 

her way 
Of me unheeded ; pining, pinching 

care 
Is all the portion that she has to share. 

*' She is a broken-down, poor, friendless 
wight, 
Through labor and through sorrow 
early old ; 

And I have known of this her evil 
plight, 
Her scanty earnings, and her lodg- 
ment cold ; 

A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be 
found : 

She labored on my land the long year 
round. 

" What wouldst thou have me say, 

thou Fiend abhorred ? 
Show me no more thine awful visage 

grim. 
If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord 
That I have paid her wages. Cry to 

him! 
He has not much against me. None 

can say 
I have not paid her wages day by day. 

"The spell! It draws me. I must 
speak again ; 
And speak against myself; and 
speak aloud. 

The woman once approached me to 
complain, — 
*My wages are so low.' I maybe 
proud ; 

It is a fault." " Ay," quoth the Phan- 
tom fell, 

" Sinner ! it is a fault : thou sayest 
well." 

*' She made her moan, * My wages are 
so low.'" 
"Tell on!" "She said," he an- 
swered, " ' My best days 
Are ended, and the summer is but slow 
To come ; and my good strength for 
work decays 
By reason that I live so hard, and lie 
On winter nights so bare for poverty. ' " 



"And you replied," — began the low- 
ering shade, 
"And I replied," the Justice fol- 
lowed on, 

"That wages like to mine my neigh- 
bor paid ; 
And if I raised the wages of the one 

Straight should the others murmur; 
furthermore, 

The winter was as winters gone before. 



" No colder and not longer." 
ward?" — 



■ After- 



The Phantom questioned. "After- 
ward," he groaned, 

"She said my neighbor was a right 
good lord, 
Never a roof was broken that he 
owned ; 

He gave much coal and clothing. 
'Doth he so? 

Work for my neighbor, then,' I an- 
swered. ' Go ! 

" ' You are full welcome.' Then she 

mumbled out 
She hoped I was not angry ; hoped, 

forsooth, 
I would forgive her: and I turned 

about. 
And said I should be angry in good 

truth 
If this should be again, or ever more 
She dared to stop me thus at the church 

door." 

"Then?" quoth the Shade; and he, 
constrained, said on, 
"Then she, reproved, curtseyed her- 
self away." 

"Hast met her since?" it made de- 
mand anon ; 
And after pause the Justice answered, 
"Ay; 

Some wood was stolen; my people 
made a stir: 

She was accused, and I did sentence 
her." 

But yet, and yet, the dreaded questions 
came : 
" And didst thou weigh the matter, — 
taking thought 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



Upon her sober life and honest fame?" 
" I gave it," he repUed, with gaze 

distraught ; 
" I gave it, Fiend, the usual care ; I 

took 
The usual pains; I could not nearer 

look, 

" Because — because their pilfering had 

got head. 
What wouldst thou more? The 

neighbors pleaded hard, 
Tis true, and many tears the creature 

shed ; 
But I had vowed their prayers to 

disregard. 
Heavily strike the first that robbed 

my land. 
And put down thieving with a steady 

hand. 



" She said she was not guilty. Ay, 'tis 

true 
She said so, but the poor are liars all. 
O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou? 

Must I view 
Thy darkness yet, and must thy 

shadow fall 
Upon me miserable ? I have done 
No worse, no more than many a scath- 

less one." 



"Yet," quoth the Shade, ""if ever to 

thine ears 
The knowledge of her blamelessness 

was brought, 
Or others have confessed wath dying 

tears 
The crime she suffered for, and thou 

hast wrought 
All reparation in thy power, and told 
Into her empty hand thy brightest 

gold : — 



*' If thou hast honored her, and hast 
proclaimed 
Her innocence and thy deplored 
wrong, 
Still thou art naught ; for thou shalt 
yet be blamed 
In that she, feeble, came before thee, 
strong, 



And thou, in cruel haste to deal a 

blow. 
Because thou hadst been angered, 

worked her woe. 



"But didst thou right her? Speak!" 

The Justice sighed. 
And beaded drops stood out upon his 

brow ; 
" How could I humble me," forlorn he 

cried, 
"To a base beggar? Nay, I will 

avow 
That I did ill. I will reveal the whole ; 
I kept that knowledge in my secret 

soul." 



" Hear him ! " the Phantom muttered ; 
"hear this man, 
O changeless God upon the judg- 
ment throne." 

With that, cold tremors through his 
pulses ran, 
And lamentably he did make his 
moan ; 

While, with its arms upraised above his 
head, 

The dim dread visitor approached his 
bed. 



" Into these doors," it said, " which 
thou hast closed. 
Daily this woman shall from hence- 
forth come ; 

Her kneeling form shall yet be inter- 
posed, 
Till all thy wretched hours have told 
their sum, — 

Shall yet be interposed by day, by 
night. 

Between thee, sinner, and the warmth 
and light. 



" Remembrance of her want shall make 
thy meal 
Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt 
not right. 
But what! Nay, verily, nor wealth 
nor weal 
From henceforth shall afford thy 
soul delisht. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



Till men shall lay thy head beneath the 

sod, 
There shall be no deliverance, saith my 

God." 

"Tell me thy name," the dreaming 

Justice cried ; 
" By what appointment dost thou 

doom me thus ? " 
•"Tis well that thou shouldst know 

me," it replied, 
** For mine thou art, and naught shall 

sever us ; 
From thine own lips and life I draw 

my force: 
The name thy nation give me is Re- 



This when he heard, the dreaming 
man cried out, 
And woke affrighted ; and a crimson 
glow 

The dying ember shed. Within, with- 
out. 
In eddying rings the silence seemed 
to flow; 

The wind had lulled, and on his fore- 
head shone 

The last low gleam ; he was indeed 
alone. 

"O, I have had a fearful dream," said 

he ; 
" I will take warning and for mercy 

trust ; 
The fiend Remorse shall never dwell 

with me : 
I will repair that wrong, I will be just, 
I will be kind, I will my ways amend." 
Noiv tJie first dream is told tmto its 

end. 

Anigh the frozen mere a cottage stood, 
A piercing wind swept round and 

shook the door. 
The shrunken door, and easy way made 

good. 
And drave long drifts of snow along 

the floor. 
It sparkled there like diamonds, for the 

moon 
Was shining in, and night was at the 

noon. 



Before her dying embers, bent and pale, 
A woman sat because her bed was 

cold; 
She heard the wind, the driving sleet 

and hail. 
And she was hunger-bitten, weak, 

and old ; 
Yet while she cowered, and while the 

casement shook, 
Upon her trembling knees she held 

a book — 

A comfortable book for them that 

mourn. 
And good to raise the courage of the 

poor; 
It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the 

bourn. 
Their Elder Brother, from His home 

secure, 
That for them desolate He died to win, 
Repeating, " Come, ye blessed, enter 



What thought she on, this woman ? on 

her days 
Of toil, or on the supperless night 

forlorn ? 
I think not so; the heart but seldom 

weighs 
With conscious care a burden always 

borne ; 
And she was used to these things, had 

grown old 
In fellowship with toil, hunger, and 

cold. 

Then did she think how sad it was to 
live 
Of all the good this world can yield 
bereft? 

No, her untutored thoughts she did not 
give 
To such a theme ; but in their warp 
and weft 

She wove a prayer: then in the mid- 
night deep 

Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep. 

A strange, a marvellous sleep, which 
brought a dream, 
And it was this : that all at once she 
heard 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



The pleasant babbling of a little stream 
That ran beside her door, and then a 
bird 

Broke out in songs. She looked, and 
lo ! the rime 

And snow had melted; it was sum- 
mer time! 

And all the cold was over, and the 
mere 
Full sweetly swayed the flags and 
rushes green ; 

The mellow sunlight poured right warm 
and clear 
Into her casement, and thereby were 
seen 

Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wander- 
ing bees 

Were hovering round the blossom-laden 
trees. 

She said, " I will betake me to my 
door, 
And will look out and see this won- 
drous sight. 

How summer is come back, and frost 
is o'er. 
And all the air warm waxen in a 
night." 

With that she opened, but for fear she 
cried, 

For lo ! two Angels, — one on either 
side. 

And while she looked, with marvelling 
measureless, 
The Angels stood conversing face to 
face. 

But neither spoke to her. "The wil- 
derness," 
One Angel said, " the solitary place. 

Shall yet be glad for Him." And then 
full fain 

The other Angel answered, " He shall 
reign." 

And when the woman heard, in won- 
dering wise, 
She whispered, "They are speaking 
of my Lord." 
And straightway swept across the open 
skies 
Multitudes like to these. They took 
the word. 



>03 
He shall come 



That flock of Angels, 

again. 
My Lord, my Lord!" they sang, 

"and He shall reign! " 

Then they, drawn up into the blue 
o'erhead. 
Right happy, shining ones, made 
haste to flee ; 

And those before her one to other said, 
"Behold he stands aneath yon al- 
mond-tree." 

This when the woman heard, she fain 
had gazed, 

But paused for reverence, and bowed 
down amazed. 

After she looked, for this her dream 

was deep ; 
She looked, and there was naught 

beneath the tree; 
Yet did her love and longing overleap 
The fear of Angels, awful though 

they be. 
And she passed out between the blessed 

things. 
And brushed her mortal weeds against 

their wings. 

O, all the happy world was in its best. 
The trees were covered thick with 
buds and flowers. 
And these were dropping honey; for 
the rest. 
Sweetly the birds were piping in 
their bowers ; 
Across the grass did groups of Angels 

And Saints in pairs were walking to 
and fro. 

Then did she pass toward the almond- 
tree, 
And none she saw beneath it: yet 
each Saint 

Upon his coming meekly bent the knee. 
And all their glory as they gazed 
waxed faint. 

And then a lighting Angel neared the 
place. 

And folded his fair wings before his 
face. 



I04 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



She also knelt, and spread her aged 
hands 
As feeling for the sacred human feet ; 

She said, "Mine eyes are held, but if 
He stands 
Anear, I will not let Him hence re- 
treat 

Except He bless me." Then, O 
sweet! O fair! 

Some words were spoken, but she 
knew not where. 

She knew not if beneath the boughs 

they woke, 
Or dropt upon her from the realms 

above ; 
"What wilt thou, woman?" in the 

dream He spoke ; 
"Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I 

love ; 
Long have I counted up thy mournful 

years. 
Once I did weep to wipe away thy 

tears." 

She said : " My one Redeemer, only 

blest, 
I know Thy voice, and from my 
yearning heart 

Draw out my deep desire, my great 
request, 
My prayer, that I might enter where 
Thou art. 

Call me, O call from this world trouble- 
some. 

And let me see Thy face." He an- 
swered, "Come." 

Here is tJie ending of the second 
dream. 
It is a frosty morning, keen and cold. 

Fast locked are silent mere and frozen 
stream. 
And snow lies sparkling on the des- 
ert wold ; 

With savory morning meats they spread 
the board, 

But Justice Wilvermore will walk 
abroad. 

"Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as 
one in haste. 
"Before you breakfast, sir?" his 
man replies. 



"Ay," quoth he, quickly, and he will 

not taste 
Of aught before him,*but in urgent 

wise. 
As he would fain some carking care 

allay. 
Across the frozen field he takes his 

way. 

" A dream ! how strange that it should 
move me so, 
'Twas but a dream," quoth Justice 
Wilvermore : 

" And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure 
know. 
For wrongs I have not heeded here- 
tofore ; 

Silver and gear the crone shall have of 
me. 

And dwell for life in yonder cottage 
free. 

" For visions of the night are fearful 
things, 
Remorse is dread, though merely in 
a dream ; 
I will not subject me to visitings 

Of such a sort again. I will esteem 
My peace above my pride. From 

natures rude 
A little gold will buy me gratitude. . 

"The woman shall have leave to 
gather wood. 
As much as she may need, the long 
year round ; 

She shall, I say; moreover, it were 
good 
Yon other cottage roofs to render 
sound. 

Thus to my soul the ancient peace re- 
store, 

And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wil- 
vermore. 

With that he nears the door : a frosty 
rime 
Is branching over it, and drifts are 
deep 
Against the wall. He knocks, and 
there is time — 
(For none doth open), — time to list 
the sweep 



1 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



los 



And whistle of the wind along the 

mere, 
Through beds of stiffened reeds and 

rushes sear. 

" If she be out, I have my pains for 

naught," 
He saith, and knocks again, and yet 

once more. 
But to his ear nor step nor stir is 

brought ; 
And, after pause, he doth unlatch 

the; door 
And enter. No ; she is not out, for 

see, 
She sits asleep 'mid frost-work winterly. 

Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, 
Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord 

call. 
"What, dame," he saith, and comes 

toward her straight, 
"Asleep so early!" But whate'er 

befall. 
She sleepeth ; then he nears her, and 

behold 
He lays a hand on hers, and it is cold. 

Then doth the Justice to his home re- 
turn ; 
From that day forth he wears a sad- 
der brow ; 

His hands are opened, and his heart 
doth learn 
The patience of the poor. He made 
a vow 

And keeps it, for the old and sick have 
shared 

His gifts, their sordid homes he hath 
repaired. 



And some he hath made happy, but 
for him 
Is happiness no more. He doth re- 
pent. 

And now the light of joy is waxen dim. 
Are all his hopes toward the Highest 
sent ; 

He looks for mercy, and he waits re- 
lease 

Above, for this world doth not yield 
him peace. 



Night after night, night after desolate 

night, 
D?y after day, day after tedious 

day, 
Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy 

light, 
Paceth behind or meets him in the 

way ; 
Or shares the path by hedge-row, 

mere, or stream. 
The visitor that doomed him in his 

dream. 



Thy kingdom come. 
I heard a Seer cry : " The wilderness, 

The solitary place. 
Shall yet be glad for Him, and He 

shall bless 
(Thy kingdom come) with His revealed 

face 
The forests ; they shall drop their 

precious gum. 
And shed for Him their balm : and He 

shall yield 
The grandeur of His speech to charm 

the field. 



"Then all the soothed winds shall 
drop to listen, 
(Thy kingdom come,) 
Comforted waters waxen calm shall 

glisten 
With bashful tremblement beneath His 
smile : 
And Echo ever the while 
Shall take, and in her awful joy re- 
peat, 
The laughter of His lips — (Thy king- 
dom come) : 
And hills that sit apart shall be no 
longer dumb ; 
_ No, they shall shout and shout. 
Raining their lovely loyalty along the 
dewy plain : 
And valleys round about, 

"And all the well-contented land, 
made sweet 
With flowers she opened at His 
feet, 



io6 



S02\rGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



Shall answer ; shout and make the 

welkin ring, 
And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, 
and sing ; 
Her cup being full to the brim, 
Her poverty made rich with Him, 
Her yearning satisfied to its utmost 

sum — 
Lift up thy voice, O Earth, prepare thy 
song, 
It shall not yet be long. 
Lift up, O Earth, for He shall come 

again, 
Thy Lord; and He shall reign, and 
He SHALL reign — 
Thy kingdom come." 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF 
BIRDS. 

introduction. 

Child and Boatman. 

"Martin, I wonder who makes all 
the songs." 
"You do, sir?" 

" Yes, I wonder how they come." 
" Well, boy, I wonder what you'll won- 
der next ! " 
" But somebody must make them ? " 

"Sure enough." 
" Does your wife know ? " 

"She never said she did." 
"You told me that she knew so many 

things." 
" I said she was a London woman, sir. 
And a fine scholar, but I never said 
She knew about the songs." 

" I wish she did." 
" And I wish no such thing ; she 

knows enough. 
She knows too much already. Look 

you now. 
This vessel's off the stocks, a tidy 

craft." 
" A schooner, Martin?" 

"No, boy, no ; a brig, 
Only she's schooner-rigged, — a lovely 
craft." 



" Is she for me ? O, thank you, Mar- 
tin dear. 
What shall I call her?" 

" Well, sir, what you please." 
" Then write on her ' The Eagle.' " 

" Bless tiie child! 
Eagle ! why, you know naught of eagles, 

you. 
When we lay off the coast, up Canada 

way. 
And chanced to be ashore when twi- i 

light fell, I 

That was the place for eagles ; bald 1 

they were, I 

With eyes as yellow as gold." | 

" O, Martin, dear, i 
Tell me about them." 

" Tell ! there's naught to tell. 
Only they snored o' nights and frighted 

us." 
" Snored?" 

"'Ay, I tell you, snored ; they 
slept upright 
In the great oaks by scores ; as true as 

time. 
If I'd had aught upon my mind just 

then, 
I would n't have walked that wood for 

unknown gold ; 
It was most awful. When the moon 

was full, 
I've seeai them fish at night, in the 

middle watch. 
When she got low; I've seen them 

plunge like stones, 
And come up fighting with a fish as 

long. 
Ay, longer than my arm ; and they 

would sail — 
When they had struck its life out — 

they would sail 
Over the deck, and show their fell, 

fierce eyes. 
And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, 

and speed 
Grand as a frigate on the wind." 

"My ship. 
She must be called ' The Eagle ' after 

these. 
And, Martin, ask your wife about the 

songs 
When you go in at dinner-time." 

" Not I." 



SONGS ON- THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD 

BY THE UNSATISFIED 

HEART. 

When in a May-day hush 
Chanteth the Wissel-thrush, 
The harp o' the heart makes answer 
with murmurous stirs ; 
When Robin-redbreast sings, 
We think on budding springs, 
And Culvers when they coo are love's 
remembrancers. 



But thou in the trance of light 
Stayest the feeding night, 
And Echo makes sweet her lips with 
the utterance wise, 
And casts at our glad feet. 
In a wisp of fancies fleet. 
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned 
prophecies. 



Her central thought full well 
Thou hast the wit to tell. 
To take the sense o' the dark and to 
yield it so ; 
The moral of moonlight 
To set in a cadence bright, 
And sing our loftiest dream that we 
thought none did know. 



I have no nest as thou, 
Bird on the blossoming bough, | 

Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the 
song o' my soul, 
Chanting, " Forego thy strife, 
The spirit out-acts the life, 
But MUCH is seldom theirs who can 
perceive the whole. 



"Thou drawest a perfect lot 
All thine, but holden not, 
Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever 
shall bide ; 
There might be sorer smart 
Than thine, far-seeing heart. 
Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be 
satisfied." 



SAND MARTINS. 

I PASSED an inland-cliff precipitate ; 
From tiny caves peeped many a 
sooty poll ; 
In each a mother-martin sat elate, 
And of the news delivered her small 
soul. 

Fantastic chatter ! hast)', glad, and gay, 
Whereof the meaning was not ill to 
tell: 
" Gossip, how wags the world with you 
to-day?" 
"Gossip, the world wags well, the 
world wags well." 

And heark'ning, I was sure their little 
ones 
Were in the bird-talk, and discourse 
was made 
Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic 
suns, 
For a clear sultriness the tune con- 
veyed ; — 

And visions of the sky as of a cup 
Hailing down light on pagan Pha- 
raoh's sand. 
And quivering air-waves trembling up 
and up. 
And blank stone faces marvellously 
bland. 

" When should the young be fledged 
and with them hie 
Where costly day drops down in 
crimson light? 
(Fortunate countries of the fire-fly 
Swarm -with blue diamonds all the 
sultry night, 

"And the immortal moon takes turn 
with them.) 
When should they pass again by 
that red land, 
Where lovely mirage works a broidered 
hem 
To fringe with phantom-palms a 
robe of sand ? 



io8 



SONGS ON- THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



*' When should they dip their breasts 
again and play 
In slumberous azure pools, clear as 
the air, 
Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all 
day, 
Stalking amid the lotos-blossom fair ? 

"Then, over podded tamarinds bear 
their flight, 
While cassias blossom in the zone of 
calms. 
And so betake them to a south sea- 
bight, 
To gossip in the crowns of cocoa- 
palms 

"Whose roots are in the spray. O, 
haply there 
Some dawn, white-winged they might 
chance to find 
A frigate, standing in to make more 
fair 
The loneliness unaltered of mankind. 

"A frigate come to water: nuts would 
fall, 
And nimble feet would climb the 
flower-flushed strand, 
While northern talk would ring, and 
therewithal 
The martins would desire the cool 
north land. 

*' And all would be as it had been be- 
fore ; 
Again, at eve, there would be news 
to tell ; 
Who passed should hear them chant 
it o'er and o'er, 
'Gossip, how wags the world?' 
' Well, gossip, well. ' " 



A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND 
THE CUCKOO-BIRD. 

Once upon a time, I lay 
Fast asleep at dawai of day ; 
Windows open to the south. 
Fancy pouting her sweet mouth 
To my ear. 



She turned a globa 
In her slender hand, her robe 
Was all spangled ; and she said, 
As slie sat at my bed's head, 
"Poet, poet, what! asleep? 
Look ! the ray runs up the steep 
To your roof." Then in the golden 
Essence of romances olden, 
Bathed she my entranced heart. 
And she gave a hand to me. 
Drew me onward ; " Cftme ! ' ' said she ; 
And she moved with me apart, 
Down the lovely vale of Leisure. 

Such its name was, I heard say, 
For some Fairies trooped that way ; 
Common people of the place, 
Taking their accustomed pleasure 
(All the clocks being stopped), to race 
Down the slope on palfreys fleet. 
Bridle bells made tinkling sweet; 
And they said, "What signified 
Faring home till eventide : 
There were pies on every shelf, 
And the bread would bake itself." 
But for that I cared not, fed, 
As it were, with angels' bread, 
Sweet as honey ; yet next day 
All foredoomed to melt away ; 
Gone before the sun waxed hot, 
Melted manna that was not. 

Rock-doves' poetry of plaint. 
Or the starling's courtship quaint; 
Heart made much of, 'twas a boon 
Won from silence, and too soon 
Wasted in the ample air: 
Building rooks far distant were 
Scarce at all would speak the rills, 
And I saw the idle hills, 
In their amber hazes deep. 
Fold themselves and go to sleep, 
TJiough it was not yet high noon. 

Silence ? Rather music brought 
From the spheres ! As if a thought. 
Having taken -wings, did fly 
Through the reaches of the skv. 
Silence ? No, a sumptuous sigh 
That had found embodiment. 
That had come across the deep 
After months of wintry sleep. 
And with tender heavings went 
Floating up the firmament. 



H 



SONGS ON- THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



109 



"0," I mourned, half slumbering 

yet, 
" 'T is the voice of my regret, — 
MineV and I awoke. Full sweet 
Saffron sunbeams did me greet ; 
And the voice it spake again, 
Dropped from yon blue cup of light 
Or some cloudlet swan' s-down white 
On my soul, that drank full fain 
The shaqj joy — the sweet pain — 
Of its clear, right innocent, 
Unreiproved discontent. 
How it came — where it went — 
Who can tell? The open blue 
Quivered with it, and I, too, 
1 rembled. I remembered me 
Of the springs that used to be, 
When a dimpled white-haired child, 
Shy and tender and half wild, 
In the meadows I had heard 
Some way off the talking bird, 
And had felt it marvellous sweet. 
For it laughed : it did me greet, 
Calling me : yet, hid away 
In the woods, it would not play. 
No. 

And all the world about, 
While a man will work or sing, 
Or a child pluck flowers of spring. 
Thou wilt scatter music out, 
Rouse him with thy wandering note, 
Changeful fancies set afloat, 
Almost tell with thy clear throat, 
But not quite, the wonder-rife. 
Most sweet riddle, dark and dim. 
That he searcheth all his life, 
Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth ; 
And so, winnowing of thy wings. 
Touch and trouble his heart's strings. 
That a certain music soundeth 
In that wondrous instrument, 
With a trembling upward sent. 
That is reckoned sweet above 
By the Greatness surnamed Love. 

" O, I hear thee in the blue ; 
Would that I might wing it too ! 
O to have what hope hath seen ! 
O to be what might have been! 
O to set my life, sweet bird. 
To a tune that oft I heard 
When I used to stand alone 
Listening to the- lovely moan 



Of the swaying pines o'erhead. 
While, a-gathermg of bee-bread 
For their living, murmured round, 
As the pollen dropped to ground, 
All the nations from the hives ; 
And the little brooding wives 
On each nest, brown dusky things, 
Sat with gold-dust on their wings. 
Then beyond (more sweet than all) 
Talked the tumbling waterfall ; 
And there were, and there were not 
(As might fail, and form anew 
Bell-hung drops of honey-dew) 
Echoes of — I know not what ; 
As if some right-joyous elf. 
While about his own affairs, 
Whistled softly otherwheres. 
Nay, as if our mother dear. 
Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere. 
Laughed a little to herself. 
Laughed a little as she rolled, , 
Thinking on the days of old. 

" Ah ! there be some hearts, I wis, 
To which nothing comes amiss. 
Mine was one. Much secret wealth 
I was heir to : and by stealth, 
When the moon was fully grown, 
And she thought herself alone, 
I have heard her, ay, right well, 
Shoot a silver message down 
To the unseen sentinel 
Of a still, snow-thatched town. 

" Once, awhile ago, I peered 
In the nest where Spring was reared. 
There she, quivering her fair wings, 
Flattered March with chirrupings ; 
And they fed her ; nights and days. 
Fed her mouth with much sweet food, 
And her heart with love and praise, 
Till the wild thing rose and flew 
Over woods and water-springs. 
Shaking off the morning dew 
In a rainbow from her wings. 

" Once (I will to you confide 
More), — O, once in forest vride, 
I, benighted, overheard 
Marvellous mild echoes stirred. 
And a calling half defined, 
And an answering from afar ; 
Somewhat talked with a star. 
And the talk was of mankind. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



" ' Cuckoo, cuckoo ! ' 

Float anear in upper blue : 

Art thou yet a prophet true ? 

Wilt thou say, ' And having seen 

Things that be, and have not been. 

Thou art free o' the world, for naught 

Can despoil thee of thy thought' ? 

Nay, but make me music yet, 

Bird, as deep as my regret ; 

For a certain hope hath set, 

Like a star, and left me heir 

To a crying for its light, 

An aspiring infinite. 

And a beautiful despair ! 

" Ah ! no more, no more, no more 
I shall lie at thy shut door, 
Mine ideal, my desired, 
Dreaming thou wilt open it. 
And step out; thou most admired, 
By my side to fare, or sh. 
Quenching hunger and all drouth 
With the wit of thy fair mouth, 
Showing me the wished prize 
In the calm of thy dove's eyes, 
Teaching me the wonder-rife 
Majesties of human life. 
All its fairest possible sum. 
And the grace of its to come. 

« What a difference ! Why of late 

All sweet music used to say, 

' She will come, and with thee stay 

To-morrow, man, if not to-day. ' 

Now it murmurs, ' Wait, wait, wait ! ' " 



A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. 

I SAW, when I looked up, on either 
hand, 
A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft 
in white ; 
A narrowing rent soon closed toward 
the land, — 
Toward the sea, an open yawning 
bight. 

The polished tide, with scarce a hint of 
blue. 
Washed in the bight; above with 
angry moan 



A raven, that was robbed, sat up in 
view. 
Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. 

"Stand on thy nest, spread out thy 
fateful wings. 
With sullen hungry love bemoan thy 
brood. 
For boys have wrung their necks, those 
imp-like things, 
Whose beaks dripped crimson daily 
at their food. 

" Cry, thou black prophetess ! cry, and 
despair ; 
None love thee, none! Their father 
was thy foe. 
Whose father in his youth did know 
thy lair, 
And steal thy little demons long ago. 

" Thou madest many childless for their 
sake. 
And picked out many eyes that loved 
the light. 
Cry, thou black prophetess! sit up, 
awake. 
Forebode ; and ban them through 
the desolate night." 

Lo! while I spake it, with a crimson 
hue 
The dipping sun endowed that silver 
flood. 
And all the cliffs flushed red, and up 
she flew, 
The bird, as mad to bathe in airy 
blood. 

" Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is 
not thine, 
Thou aged priestess of fell doom, 
and fate. 
It is not blood : thy gods are making 
wine. 
They spilt the must outside their 
city gate, 

"And stained their azure pavement 
with the lees : 
They will not listen though thou cry 
aloud. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling 
at her ease, 
Nor hears ; the fair hag, Luck, is in 
her shi'oud. 

"They heed not, they withdraw the 
sky-hung sign : 
Thou hast no charm against the 
favorite race ; 
Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, 
but wine : 
There is no justice in their dwelling- 
place ! 

" Safe in their father's house the boys 
shall rest, 
Though thy fell brood doth stark 
and silent lie ; 
Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy 
nest: 
Cry, thou black prophetess ! lift up ! 
cry, cry! " 



THE WARBLING OF BLACK- 
BIRDS. 

When I hear the waters fretting, 
When I see the chestnut letting 
All her lovely blossom falter down, I 
think, " Alas the day ! " 
Once, with magical swe£t singing. 
Blackbirds set the woodland ringing. 
That awakes no more while April hours 
wear themselves away. 

In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, 

Sweet as air, and all beguiling ; 

And there hung a mist of bluebells on 

the slope and down the dell ; 

And we talked of joy and splendor 

That the years unborn would render. 

And the blackbirds helped us with the 

story, for they knew it well. 

Piping, fluting "Bees are hum- 
ming, 
April's here, and summer's coming ; 
Don't forget us when you walk, a man 
_ with men, in pride and joy ; 
Think on us in alleys shady, 
When you step a graceful lady ; 
For no fairer day have we to hope for, 
little girl and boy. 



" Laugh and play, O lisping waters, 

Lull our downy sons and daughters ; 

Come, O wind, and rock their leafy 

cradle in thy wanderings coy ; 

When they wake, we'll end the 

measure 
With a wild sweet cry of pleasure. 
And a ' Hey down derry, let's be merry ! 
little girl and boy! '" 



SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. 

I WALKED beside a dark gray sea. 
And said, "O world, how cold thou 
art! 
Thou poor white world, I pity thee. 
For joy and warmth from thee de- 
part. 

" Yon rising wave licks off the snow. 
Winds on the crag each other chase, 

In little powdery whirls they blow 
The misty fragments down its face. 

"The sea is cold, and dark its rim, 
Winter sits cowering on the wold, 

And I, beside this watery brim. 
Am also lonely, also cold." 

I spoke, and drew toward a rock, 
Where many mews made twittering 
sweet : 
Their v'ngs upreared, the clustering 
flock 
Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. 

A rock but half submerged, the sea 
Ran up and washed it while they 
fed; 

Their fond and foolish ecstasy 
A wondering in my fancy bred. 



Joy companied with every cry, 

Joy in their food, in that keen wind, 

That heaving sea, that shaded sky. 
And in themselves, and in their 
kind. 



LAURANCE. 



The phantoms of the deep at play ! _ 
What idless graced the twittering 
things; 

Ltixurious paddlings in the spray, 
And delicate lifting up of wings. 

Then all at once a flight, and fast 
The lovely crowd flew out to sea ; 

If mine own life had been recast, 
Earth had not looked more changed 
to me. 

"Where is the cold? Yon clouded 
skies 
Have only dropped their curtains low 
To shade the old mother where she 
lies, 
Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow. 

'• The cold is not in crag, nor scar, 
Not in the snows that lap the lea. 

Not in yon wings that beat afar, 
Delighting, on the crested sea ; 

'* No, nor in yon exultant wind 
That shakes the oak and bends the 
pine. 
Look near, look in, and thou shalt find 
No sense of cold, fond fool, but 
thine 1 " 

With that I felt the gloom depart, 
And thoughts withm me did unfold. 

Whose sunshine warmed me to the 
heart : 
I walked in joy, and was not cold. 



LAURANCE. 



He knew she did not love him ; but so 

long 
As rivals were unknown to him, he 

dwelt 
At ease, and did not find his love a 

pain. 



He had much deference in his nature, 

need 
To honor, — it became him : he was 

frank, 
Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and 

strong, — 
Looked all things straight in the face. 

So when she came 
Before him first, he looked at her, and 

looked 
No more, but colored to his healthful 

brow, 
And wished himself a better man, and 

thought 
On certain things, and wished they 

were undone, 
Because her girlish innocence, the 

grace 
Of her unblemished pureness, wrought 

in him 
A longing-and aspiring, and a shame 
To thinkhow wicked was the world, — 

that world 
Which he must walk In, — while from 

her (and such 
As she was) it was hidden ; there was 

made 
A clean path, and the girl moved on 

like one 
In some enchanted ring. 

In his young heart 
She reigned, with all the beauties that 

slae had, 
And all the virtues that he rightly 

took 
For granted ; there he set her with her 

crown, 
And at her first enthronement he turned 

out 
Much that was best away, for un- 
aware 
His thoughts grew noble. She was 

always there 
And knew it not, and he grew like to 

her, 
And like to what he thought her. 

Now he dwelt 
With kin. that loved him well, — two 

fine old folk, 
A rich, right honest yeoman, and his 

dame, — 



LAURA NCR. 



»i3 



Their only grandson he, their pride, 

their heir. 
To these one daughter had been born, 

one child, 
And as she grew to woman, " Look," 

they said, 
" She must not leave us ; let us build a 

wing, 
With cheerful rooms and wide, to our 

old grange ; 
There may she dwell, with her good 

man, and all 
God sends them." Then the girl in 

her first youth 
Married a curate, — handsome, poor 

in purse, 
Of gentle blood and manners, and he 

lived 
Under her father's roof as they had 

planned. 

Full soon, for happy years are short, 

they filled 
The house with children ; four were 

born to them. 
Then came a sickly season; fever 

spread 
Among the poor. The curate, never 

slack 
In duty, praying by the sick, or, worse. 
Burying the dead, when all the air was 

clogged _ . 

With poisonous mist, was stricken; 

long he lay 
Sick, almost to the death, and when his 

head 
He lifted from the pillow, there was 

left 
One only of that pretty flock: his 

girls. 
His three, were cold beneath the sod ; 

his boy. 
Their eldest born, remained. 

The drooping wife 
Bore her great sorrow in such quiet 

wise. 
That first they marvelled at her, then 

they tried 
To rouse her, showing her their bitter 

grief, 
Lamenting, and not sparmg ; but she 

sighed, 
•' Let me alone, it will not be for long." 



Then did her mother tremble, murmur- 
ing out, 

" Dear child, the best of comfort will be 
soon, 

O, when you see this other little face. 

You will, please God, be comforted." 

She said, 
"I shall not live to see it;" but she 

did, — 
A little sickly face, a wan, thin face. 
Then she grew eager, and her eyes 

were bright 
When she would plead with them, 

" Take me away. 
Let me go south ; it is the bitter blast 
That chills my tender babe; she can- 
not thrive 
Under the desolate, dull, mournful 

cloud." 
Then all they journeyed south together, 

niute 
With past and coming sorrow, till the 

sun. 
In gardens edging the blue tideless 

main, 
Warmed them and calmed the aching 

at their hearts. 
And all went better for a while ; but 

not 
For long. They sitting by the orange 

trees 
Once rested, and the wife was very 

still : [up 

A woman with narcissus flowers heaped 
Let down her basket from her head, 

but paused 
With pitying gesture, and drew near 

and stooped. 
Taking a white wild face upon her 

breast. 
The little babe on its poor mother's 

knees. 
None marking it, none knowing else, 

had died. 

[hind. 
The fading mother could not stay be- 
Her heart was broken ; but it awed 

them most 
To feel they must not, dared not, pray 

for life. 
Seeing she longed to go, and went so 

gladly. 



114 



LAU RANGE. 



After, these three, who loved each 
other well, 

Brought their one child away, and they 
weie best 

Together in the wide old grange. Full 
oft 

The father with the mother talked of 
her, 

Their daughter, but the husband never- 
more ; 

He looked for solace in his work, and 
gave 

H'.s mind to teach his boy. And time 
went on, 

Until the grandsire prayed those other 
two, 

" Now part with him ; it must be ; for 
his good: 

He rules and knows it ; choose for him 
a school, 

Let him have all the advantages, and all 

Good training that should make a gen- 
tleman." 



With that they parted from their boy, 

and lived 
Longing between his holidays, and 

time 
Sped ; he grew on till he had eighteen 

years. 
His father loved him, wished to make 

of him 
Another parson ; but the farmer's wife 
Murmured at that — "No, no, they 

learned bad ways, 
They ran in debt at college ; she had 

heard 
That many rued the day they sent their 

boys 
To college : " and between the two 

broke in 
His grandsire, " Find a sober, honest 

man, 
A scholar, for our lad should see the 

world 
While he is young, that he may marry 

young. 
He will not settle and be satisfied 
Till he has run about the world awhile. 
Good lack, I longed to travel in my 

youth, 
And had no chance to do it. Send him 

off, 



A sober man being found to trust him 

with, — 
One with the fear of God before his 

eyes." 
And he prevailed ; the careful father 

chose 
A tutor, young, the worthy matron 

thought, — 
In truth, not ten years older than her 

boy, 
And glad as he to range, and keen for 

snows, 
Desert, and ocean. And they made 

strange choice 
Of where to go, left the sweet day be- 
hind. 
And pushed up north in whaling ships, 

to feel 
What cold was, see the blowing whale 

come up, 
And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet 

sun 
Went round and round, crowd on the 

clear blue berg. 

Then did the trappers have them. ; and 

they heard 
Nightly the whistling calls of forest- 
men 
That mocked the forest wonners ; and 

they saw 
Over the open, raging up like doom, 
The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full 

of eyes — 
The bisons. So were three years gone 

like one ; 
And the old cities drew them for a 

while. 
Great mothers, by the Tiber and thp 

Seine ; 
They have hid many sons hard by their 

seats. 
But all the air is stirring with them 

still. 
The waters murmur of them, skies at 

eve 
Are stained with their rich blood, and 

every sound 
Means men. 



At last, the fourth year running out, 
The youth came home. And all the 
cheerful house 



LAURANCE. 



»iS 



Was decked in fresher colors, and the 

dame 
Was fall of joy. But in the father's 

heart 
Abode a painful doubt. "It is not 

well ; 
He cannot spend his life with dog and 

gun. 
I do not care that my one son should 

sleep 
Merely for keeping him in breath, and 

wake 
Only to ride to cover. " 

Not the less 
The grandsire pondered. ''Ay, the 

boy must work 
Or SPEND ; and I must let him spend; 

just stay 
Awhile with us, and then from time to 

time 
Have leave to be away with those fine 

folk 
With whom, these many years, at 

school, and now, 
During his sojourn in the foreign towns. 
He has been made familiar." Thus a 

month 
Went by. They liked the stirring ways 

of youth. 
The quick elastic step^ and joyous 

mind. 
Ever expectant of it knew not what, 
But something higher than has e'er 

been born 
Of easy slumber and sweet competence. 
And as for him, the while they thought 

and thought, 
A comfortable instinct let him know 
How they had waited for him, to com- 
plete 
And give a meaning to their lives ; and 

still 
At home, but with a sense of newness 

there. 
And frank and fresh as in the school- 
boy days. 
He oft — invading of his father's haunts. 
The study where he passed the silent 

morn — 
Would sit, devouring with a greedy 

joy 
The piled-up books, uncut as yet ; or 

wake 



To guide with him by night the tube, 

and search. 
Ay, think to find new stars ; then, risen 

betimes, 
Would ride about the farm, and list 

the talk 
Of his hale grandsire. 

But a da}' came round, 

When, after peering in his mother's 
room. 

Shaded and shuttered from the light, 
he oped 

A door, and found the rosy grand- 
mother 

Ensconced and happy in her special 
pride, 

Her store-room. She was corking syr- 
ups rare. 

And fruits all sparkling in a crystal 
coat. 

Here, after choice of certain cates well 
known. 

He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease, 

Sang as he watched her, till, right 
suddenly. 

As if a new thought came, " Goody," 
quoth he, 

" What, think you, do they want to do 
with me ? 

What have they planned for me that I 
should do?" 

" Do, laddie ! " quoth she, faltering, 
half in tears ; 

"Are you not happy with us? not con- 
tent ? 

Why would ye go away? There is no 
need 

That ye should do at all. O, bide at 
home. 

Have we not plenty?" 

" Even so," he said ; 
" I did not wish to go." 

" Nay, then," quoth she, 
" Be idle ; let me see your blessed face. 
What, is the horse your father chose 

for you 
Not to your mind? He is? Well, 

well, remain ; 
Do as you will, so you but do it here. 
You shall not want for money." 



ii6 



LAURANCE. 



But, his arms 
Folding, he sat and twisted up his 

mouth 
With comical discomfiture. 

_ " What, then," 
She sighed, " what is it, child, that you 

would like?" 
"Why," said he, "farming." 

And she looked at him. 
Fond, foolish woman that she was, to 

find 
Some fitness in the worker for the 

work, 
And she found none. A certain grace 

there was 
Of movement, and a beauty in the 

face, 
Sun-browned and healthful beauty, 

that had come 
From his grave father ; and she 

thought, "Good lack, 
A farmer ! he is fitter for a duke. 
He walks — why, how he walks! if I 

should meet 
One like him, whom I knew not, I 

should ask. 
And who may that be?" So the fool- 
ish thought 
Found words. Quoth she, half laugh- 
ing, half ashamed, 
" We planned to make of you — a gen- 
tleman." 
And, with engaging sweet audacity, — 
She thought it nothing less, — he, look- 
ing up. 
With a smile in his blue eyes, replied 

to her, 
"And haven't you done it?" Quoth 

she, lovingly, 
" I think we have, laddie ; I think we 

have." 
"Then," quoth he, "I may do what 

best I like; 
It makes no matter. Goody, you were 

wise 
To help me in it, and to let me farm ; 
I think of getting into mischief else ! " 
" No ! do ye, laddie ? " quoth the dame, 

and laughed. 
" But ask my grandfather," the youth 
went on, 



"To let me have the farm he bought 

last year. 
The little one, to manage. I like land ; 
I want some." And she, womanlike, 

gave way. 
Convinced ; and promised, and made 

good her word. 
And that same night upon the matter 

spoke. 
In presence of the father and the son. 



" Roger," quoth she, " our Laurance 

wants to farm ; 
" I think he might do worse." The 

father sat 
Mute, but right glad. The grandson, 

breaking in. 
Set all his wish and his ambition forth ; 
But cunningly the old man hid his joy, 
And made conditions with a faint de- 
mur. 
Then, pausing, " Let your father 

speak," quoth he ; 
" I am content if he is." At his word 
The parson took him ; ay, and, parson 

like. 
Put a religious meaning in the work, _ 
Man's earliest work, and wished his 

son God speed. 



Thus all were satisfied, and, day by 

day, 
For two' sweet years a happy course 

was theirs ; 
Happy, but yet the fortunate, the 

young 
Loved, and much cared-for, entered on 

his strife, — 
A stirring of the heart, a quickening 

keen 
Of sight and hearing to the delicate 
Beauty and music of an altered world, — 
Began to walk in that mysterious light 
Which doth reveal and yet transform ; 

which gives 
Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and 

life, 
Intenser meaning ; in disquieting 
Lifts up ; a shining light : men call it 

Love. 



LAURANCE. 



117 



Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he 

loved ; 
A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, 

sincere. 
She never turned from him with sweet 

caprice, 
Nor changing moved his soul to 

troublous hope, 
Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes 

low. 
But excellent in youthful grace came 

And, ere his words were ready, passmg 

on, 
Had left him all a-tremble ; yet made 

sure 
That by her own true will, and fixed 

intent, 
She held him thus remote. Therefore, 

albeit 
He knew she did not love him, yet so 

long 
As of a rival unaware, he dwelt 
All in the present, without fear, or hope, 
Enthralled and whelmed in the deep 

sea of love, 
And could not get his head above its 

wave 
To search the far horizon, or to mark 
Whereto it drifted him. 



So long, so long ; 
Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless 

fate, 
Showed him a bitter truth, and brought 

him bale 
All in the tolling out of noon. 



'Twasthus: 
Snow-time was come ; it had been 

snowing hard ; 
Across the churchyard path he walked ; 

the clock 
Began to strike, and, as he passed the 

porch, 
Half tnrning, through a sense that 

came to him 
As of some presence in it, he beheld 
His love, and she had come for shelter 

there ; 
And all her face was fair with rosy 

bloom, 



The blush of happiness ; and one held 

up 
Her ungloved hand in both his own, 

and stooped 
Toward it, sitting by her. O, her eyes 
Were full of peace and tender light: 

they looked 
One moment in the ungraced lover's 

face 
While he was passing in the snow; 

and he 
Received the story, while he raised his 

hat 
Retiring. Then the clock left off to 

strike, 
And that was all. It snowed, and he 

walked on ; 
And in a certain way he marked the 

snow. 
And walked, and came upon the open 

heath ; 
And in a certain way he marked the 

cold, 
And walked as one that had no starting- 
place 
Might walk, but not to any certain goal. 



And he strode on toward a hollow part, 

Where from the hillside gravel had 
been dug, 

And he was conscious of a cry, and went, 

Dulled in his sense, as though he 
heard it not ; 

Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half- 
grown girl. 

Rose from the shelter of a drift that 
lay 

Against the bushes, crying, "God! O 
God, 

O my good God, He sends us help at 
last." 



Then, looking hard upon her, came to 
him 

The power to feel and to perceive. 
Her teeth 

Chattered, and all her limbs with shud- 
dering failed, 

And in her threadbare shawl was 
wrapped a child 

That looked on him with wondering, 
wistful eyes. 



ii8 



LAU RANGE. 



"l thought to freeze," the girl broke 

out with tears ; 
"Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out 

the child, 
As praying him to take it ; and he did ; 
And gave to her the shawl, and swathed 

his charge 
In the foldings of his plaid ; and when 

it thrust 
Its small round face against his breast, 

and felt 
With small red hands for warmth, un- 
bearable 
Pains of great pity rent his straitened 

heart, 
For the poor upland dwellers had been 

out 
Since morning dawn, at early milking- 

time, 
Wandering and stumbling in the drift. 

And now. 
Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the 

cold, 
Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her 

on, 
That ill-clad child, who yet the younger 

child 
Had motherly cared to shield. So 

toiling through 
The great white storm coming, and 

coming yet, 
And coming till the world confounded 

sat 
With all her fair familiar features 

gone. 
The mountains muffled in an eddying 

swirl. 
He led or bore them, and the little one 
Peered from her shelter, pleased ; but * 

oft would mourn 
The elder, " They will beat me : O my 

can, 
I left my can of milk upon the moor." 
And he compared her trouble with his 

own. 
And had no heart to speak. And yet 

'twas keen ; 
It filled her to the putting down of 

pain 
And hunger, — what could his do 

more ? 

He brought 
The children to their home, and sud- 
denly 



Regained himself, and, wondering at 

himself. 
That he had borne, and yet been dumb 

so long. 
The weary wailing of the girlj he paid 
Money to buy her pardon ; heard them 

say, 
"Peace, we have feared for you; for- 
get the milk. 
It is no matter ! " and went forth again 
And waded in the snow, and quietly 
Considered in his patience what to do 
With all the dull remainder of his days. 



With dusk he was at home, and felt it 

good 
To hear his kindred talking, for it 

broke 
A mocking endless echo in his soul, 
"It is no matter!" and he could not 

choose 
But mutter, though the weariness o'er- 

came 
His spirit, "Peace, it is no matter; 

peace. 
It is no matter ! " For he felt that all 
Was as it had been, and his father's 

heart 
Was easy, knowing not how that same 

day 
Hope with her tender colors and de- 
light 
(He should not care to have him know) 

were dead ; 
Yea, to all these, his nearest and most 

dear. 
It was no matter. And he heard them 

talk 
Of timber felled, of certain fruitful 

fields. 
And profitable markets. 

All for him 
Their plans, and 5'et the echoes 

swarmed and swam 
About his head, whenever there was 

pause ; 
" It is no matter ! " And his greater 

self 
Arose in him and fought. " It matters 

much, 
It matters all to these, that not to-day 
Nor ever they should know it. 1 will 

hide 



LAURANCE. 



[19 



The wound ; ay, hide it with a sleepless 

care. 
What! shall I make these three to 

drink of rue, 
Because my cup is bitter?" And he 

thrust 
Himself in thought away, and made 

his ears 
Hearken, and caused his voice, that 

yet did seem 
Another, to make answer, when they 

spoke, 
As there liad been no snow-storm, and 

no porch. 
And no despair. 

So this went on awhile 
Until the snow had melted from the 

wold, 
And he, one noonday, wandering up a 

lane. 
Met on a turn the woman whom he 

loved. 
Then, even to trembling he was moved ; 

his speech 
Faltered ; but, when the common 

kindly words 
Of greeting were all said, and she 

passed on. 
He could not bear her sweetness and 

his pain. 
"Muriel!" he cried; and when she 

heard her name, 
She turned. "You know I love you," 

he broke out. 
She answered, "Yes," and sighed. 

" O, pardon me, 
Pardon me," quoth the lover; "let 

me rest 
In certainty, and hear it from your 

mouth : 
Is he with whom I saw you once of 

late 
Tt,. call you wife ? " "I hope so," she 

replied ; 
And over all her face the rose-bloom 

came. 
As, ihinking on that other, unaware 
Hei eyes waxed tender. When he 

looked on her. 
Standing to answer him, with lovely 

shame, 
Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, 



A quickened sense of his great impo- 
tence 

To drive away the doom got hold on 
him ; 

He set his teeth to force the unbear- 
able 

Misery back ; his wide-awakened eyes 

Flashed as with flame. 

And she, all overawed 
And mastered by his manhood, waited 

yet. 
And trembled at the deep she coidd 

not sound, — 
A passionate nature in a storm, — a 

heart 
Wild with a mortal pain,and in the grasp 
Of an immortal love. 

" Farewell," he said. 

Recovering words ; and, when she gave 

her hand, 
' ' My thanks for your good candor ; for 
I feel 

That it has cost you something" 
Then, the blush 

Yet on her face, she said: "It was 
your due : 

But keep this matter from your friends 
and kin. 

We would not have it known," Then, 
cold and proud, 

Because there leaped from under his 
straight lids. 

And instantly was veiled, a keen sur- 
prise, — 

" He wills it, and I therefore think it 
well." 

Thereon they parted ; but from that 
time forth, 

Whether they met on festal eve, in field, 

Or at the church, she ever bore her- 
self 

Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain ; 

The disapproval hastily betrayed 

And quickly hidden hurt her. " 'Twas 
a grace," 

She thought, "to tell this man the 
thing he asked. 

And he rewards me with surprise. I 
like 

No one's surprise, and least of all be- 
stowed 

Where he bestowed it." 



LAU RANGE. 



But the spring came on. 
Looking to wed in April, all her thoughts 
Grew loving ; she would fain the world 

had waxed 
More happy with her happiness, and 

oft 
Walking among the flowery woods she 

felt 
Their lovehness reach down into her 

heart, 
And knew with them the ecstasies of 

growth, 
The rapture that was satisfied with 

light. 
The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite 
Expansion, through the lovely, longed- 
for spring. 



And as for him — (Some narrow hearts 

there are 
That suffer blight when that they fed 

upon, 
As something to complete their being, 

fails. 
And they retire into their holds and 

pine, 
And long restrained grow stern. But 

some there are 
That in a sacred want and hunger rise, 
And draw the misery home and live 

with it, 
And excellent in honor wait, and will 
That somewhat good should yet be 

found in it, 
Else wherefore were they born?) — 

and as for him. 
He loved her, but his peace and welfare 

made 
The sunshine of three lives. The 

cheerful grange 
Threw open wide its hospitable doors 
And drew in guests for him. The gar- 
den flowers. 
Sweet budding wonders, all were set 

for him. 
In him the eyes at home were satisfied, 
And if he did but laugh the ear ap- 
proved. 



What then? He dwelt among them as 

of old, 
And taught his mouth to smile. 



And time went on, 

Till on a morning, when the perfect 
Spring 

Rested among her leaves, he, journey- 
ing home 

After short sojourn in a neighboring 
town, 

Stopped at the little station on the 
line 

That ran beween his woods ; a lonely 
place 

And quiet, and a woman and a child 

Got out. He noted them, but, "walk- 
ing on 

Quickly, went back into the wood, im- 
pelled 

By hope,'' for, passing, he had seen his 
love. 

And she was sitting on a rustic seat 

That overlooked the line, and he de- 
sired, 

With longing indescribable, to look 

Upon her face again. And he drew 
near. 

She was right happy ; she was waiting 
there. 

He felt that she was waiting for her 
lord. 

She cared no whit if Laurance went or 
stayed. 

But answered when he spoke, and 
dropped her cheek 

In her fair hand. 

And he, not able yet 

To force himself away, and never- 
more 

Behold her, gathered blossom, prim- 
rose flowers, 

And wild anemone, for many a clump 

Grew all about him, and the hazel- 
rods 

Were nodding with their catkins. But 
he heard 

The stopping train, and felt that he 
must go ; 

His time was come. There was naught 
else to do 

Or hope for. With the blossom he 
drew near, 

And would have had her take it from 
his hand ; 

But she, half lost in thought, held out 
her own, 



LAURA NCE. 



And then, remembering him and his 

long love, 
She said, " I thank you ; pray you now 

forget, 
Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely 

eyes 
Softened; but he was dumb, till 

through the trees 
Suddenly broke upon their quietude 
The woman and her child. And 

Muriel said, 
"What will you?" She made answer 

quick and keen, 
" Your name, my lady ; 'tis your name 

I want, 
Tell me your name." Not startled, 

not displeased, 
But with a musing sweetness on her 

mouth. 
As if considering in how short a while 
It would be changed, she lifted up her 

face 
And gave it, and the little child drew 

near 
And pulled her gown, and prayed her 

for the flowers. 
Then Laurance, not content to leave 

them so. 
Nor yet to wait the coming lover, 

spoke : 
" Your errand with this lady ? " — " And 

your right 
To ask it?" she, broke out with sud- 
den heat 
And passion; "What is that to you? 

Poor child ! 
Madam!" And Muriel lifted up her 

face 
And looked, — they looked into each 

other's eyes. 



"That man who comes," the clear- 
voiced woman cried, — 

"That man with whom you think to 
wed so soon, — 

You must not heed him. What! the 
world is full 

Of men, and some are good, and most, 
God knows. 

Better than he, — that I should say it ! 
— far 

Better." And down her face the large 
tears ran. 



And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked 

up, 
Taking a terrible meaning from her 

words ; 
And Laurance stared about him, half 

in doubt 
If this were real, for all things were so 

blithe, 
And soft air tossed the little flowers 

about ; 
The child was singing, and the black- 
birds piped. 
Glad in fair sunshine. And the women 

both 
Were quiet, gazing in each other's 

eyes. 

He found his voice, and spoke : 

"This is not well. 
Though whom you speak of should 

have done you wrong ; 
A man that could desert and plan to 

wed 
Will not his purpose yield to God and 

right. 
Only to law. You, whom I pity so 

much. 
If you be come this day to urge a claim, 
You will not tell me that your claim 

will hold ,• 
'Tis only, if I read aright, the old, 
Sorrowful, hateful story ! " 

Muriel sighed. 
With a dull patience that he marvelled 

at: 
" Be plain with me. I know not what 

to think. 
Unless you are his wife. Are you his 

wife ? 
Be plain with me." And all too 

quietly. 
With running down of tears, the an- 
swer came, 
"Ay, madam, ay! the worse for him 

and me." 
Then Muriel heard her lover's foot 

anear. 
And cried upon him with a bitter cr>'. 
Sharp and despairing. And those two 

stood back. 
With such affright and violent anger 

stirred, [side. 

He broke from out the thicket to her 



122 



LAURANCE. 



Not knowing. But, her hands before 

her face, 
She sat ; and, stepping close, that 

woman came 
And faced him. Then said Muriel, 

"O my heart, 
Herbert ! " — and he was dumb, and 

ground his teeth, 
And lifted up his hand and looked at it. 
And at the woman ; but a man was 

there 
Who whirled her from her place, and 

thrust himself 
Between them; he was strong, — a 

stalwart man : 
And Herbert, thinking on it, knew his 

name. 
•'What good," quoth he, " though you 

and I should strive 
And wrestle all this April day ? A 

word. 
And not a blow, is what these women 

want: 
Master yourself, and say it." But he, 

weak 
With passion and great anguish, flung 

himself 
Upon the seat and cried, " O lost, my 

love ! 
O Muriel, Muriel ! "" And the woman 

spoke, 
•* Sir, 'twas an evil day you wed with 

me; 
And you were young ; I know it, sir, 

right well. 
Sir, I have worked ; I have not troubled 

you. 
Not for myself, nor for your child. I 

know 
We are not equal." ''Hold!" he 

cried; "have done ; 
Your still, tame words are worse than 

hate or scorn. 
Get from me ! Ay, my wife, my wife, 

indeed ! 
All's done. You hear it, Muriel ; if 

you can, 
O sweet, forgive me.' ' 

Then the woman moved 
Slowly away; her little singing child 
Went in her wake ; and Muriel 
dropped her hands, 



And sat before these two that loved her 

so, 
Mute and unheeding. There were 

angry words, 
She knew, but vet she could not hear 

the words ; 
And afterwards the man she loved 

stooped down 
And kissed her forehead once, and 

then withdrew 
To look at her, and with a gesture 

pray 
Her pardon. And she tried to speak, 

but failed. 
And presently, and soon, O, — he was 

gone. 

She heard him go, and Laurance, still 

as stone, 
Remained beside her ; and she put her 

hand 
Before her face_ again, and afterward 
She heard a voice, as if, a long way 

off, 
Some one entreated, but she could not 

heed. 
Thereon he drew her hand away, and 

raised 
Her passive from her seat. So then 

she knew 
That he would have her go with him, 

go home, — 
It was not far to go, — a dreary home. 
A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage j 

high, 
Had, in her youth, and for a place 

and home, [girl 

Married the stern old rector; and the 
Dwelt with them : she was orphaned, 

— had no kin 
Nearer than they. And Laurance 

brought her in. 
And spared to her the telling of this 

woe. 
He sought her kindred where they sat 

apart. 
And laid before them all the cruel 

thing, 
As he had seen it. After, he retired ; 
And restless, and not master of him- 
self. 
He day and night haunted the rectory 

lanes ; 



I 



LAURANCE. 



123 



And all things, even to the spreading 

out 
Of leaves, their flickering shadows on 

the ground, 
Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or 

peace 
And glory and great light on mountain 

heads, — 
All things were leagued against him, 

ministered 
By likeness or by contrast to his love. 

But what was that to Muriel, though her 

peace 
He would have purchased for her with 

all prayers, 
And costly, passionate, despairing 

tears ? 
O, what to her that he should find it 

worse 
To bear her life's undoing than his 

own? 

She let him see her, and she made no 

moan, 
But talked full calmly of indifferent 

things. 
Which when he heard, and marked the 

faded eyes 
And lovely wasted cheek, he started up 
^i-th "This I cannot bear!" and 



With 



shamed to feel 



His manhood giving way, and utterly 
Subdued by her sweet patience and his 

pain, 
Made haste and from the window 

sprang, and paced, 
Battling and chiding with himself, the 

maze. 

She suffered, and he could not make 

her well 
For all his loving ; — he was naught to 

her. 
And now his passionate nature, set 

astir. 
Fought with the pain that could not be 

endured ; 
And like a wild thing, suddenly aware 
That it is caged, which flings and 

bruises all 
Its body at the bars, he rose, and 

raged 



Against the misery : then he made all 
worse 

With tears. But when he came to her 
again. 

Willing to talk as they had talked be- 
fore. 

She sighed, and said, with that strange 
quietness, 

" I know you have been crying : " and 
she bent 

Her own fair head and wept. 



She felt the cold — 
The freezing cold that deadened all her 

life — 
Give way a little ; for this passionate 
Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her 

heart. 
And brought some natural warmth, 

some natural tears. 



And after that, though oft he sought 

her door, 
He might not see her. First they said 

to him, 
"She is not \yell;". and afterwards, 

"Her wish 
Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste 
They took her from the place, because 

so fast 
She faded. As for him, — though 

youth and strength 
Can bear the weight as of a world, at 

last 
The burden of it tells, — he heard it 

said, 
When autumn came, "The poor sweet 

thing will die : 
That shock was mortal." And he 

cared no more 
To hide, if yet he could have hidden, 

the blight 
That was laying waste his heart. He 

journeyed south 
To Devon, where she dwelt with other 

kin. 
Good, kindly women ; and he wrote to 

them. 
Praying that he might see her ere she 

died. 



124 



LAURANCE. 



So in her patience she permitted him 
To be about her, for it eased his heart ; 
And as for her that was to die so soon, 
What did it signify? She let him weep 
Some passionate tears beside her couch, 

she spoke 
Pitying words, and then they made him 

go- 
It was enough, they said ; her time was 

short, 
And he had seen her. He had seen, 

and felt 
The bitterness of death ; but he went 

home. 
Being satisfied in that great longing 

now. 
And able to endure what might befall. 

And Muriel lay, and faded with the 
year ; 

She lay at the door of death, that 
opened not 

To take her in ; for when the days 
once more 

Began a little to increase, she felt, — 

And it was sweet to her, she was so 
young, — 

She felt a longing for the time of flow- 
ers. 

And dreamed that she was walking in 
that wood 

With her two feet among the prim- 
roses. 

Then when the violet opened, she rose 
up 

And walked. The tender leaf and ten- 
der light 

Did solace her ; but she was white and 
wan. 

The shadow of that Muriel in the wood 

Who listened to those deadly words. 



And now 
Empurpled seas began to blush and 

bloom. 
Doves made sweet moaning, and the 

guelder-rose 
In a great stillness dropped, and ever 
dropped, 
Her wealth about her feet, and there it 

fted not at all. The lilac spread 



Odorous essence round her; and full 

oft, 
When Muriel felt the warmth her 

pulses cheer. 
She, faded, sat among the May-tide 

bloom. 
And with a reverent quiet in her soul, 
Took back — it was His will — her • 

time, and sat 
Learning again to live. 

Thus as she sat 
Upon a day, she was aware of one 
Who at a distance marked her. This 

again 
Another day, and she was vexed, for 

yet 
She longed for quiet ; but she heard a 

foot 
Pass once again, and beckoned through 

the trees. 
"Laurance!" And all impatient of 

unrest 
And strife, ay, even of the sight of 

them. 
When he drew near, with tired, tired 

lips. 
As if her soul upbraided him, she said, 
"Why have you done this thing?" 

He answered her, 
" I am not always master in the fight : 
I could not help it." 

"What!" she sighed, "not yet! 
O, I am sorry ; " and she talked to him 
As one who looked to live, imploring 

him, — 
"Try to forget me. Let your fancy 

dwell 
Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so 

long ; 
It wearies me to think of this your love. 
Forget me!" 

He made answer, " I will try : 
The task will take me all my life to 

learn. 
Or, were it learned, I know not how to 

live ; 
This pain is part of life and being 

now, — 
It is mvself ; but vet — but I will try.' 
Then she spoke friendly to him, — of 

his home, 



LAU RANGE. 



"S 



Mis father, and the old, brave, loving 

folk; 
She bade him think of them. And 

. not her words. 
But having seen her, satisfied his heart. 
He left her, and went home to live his 

life, 
And all the summer heard it said of 

her, 
*' Yet, she grows stronger ; " but when 

autumn came 
Again she drooped. 

A bitter thing it is 

To lose at once the lover and the love ; 

For who receiveth. not may yet keep 
life _ 

In the spirit with bestowal. But for 
her. 

This Muriel, all was gone. The man 
she loved, 

Not only from her present had with- 
drawn. 

But from her past, and there was no 
such man, 

There never had been. 



He was not as one 
Who takes love in, like some sweet 

bird, and holds 
The winged fluttering stranger to his 

breast. 
Till, after transient stay, all unaware _ 
It leaves him : it has flown. No ; this 

may live 
In memory, — loved till death. He 

was not vile ; 
For who by choice would part with 

that pure bird. 
And lose the exultation of its song? 
He had not strength of will to keep it 

fast, 
Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, 

nor life 
Of thought to make the echo sound for 

him 
After the song was done. Pity that 

man: 
His music is all flown, and he forgets 
The sweetness of it, till at last he 

thinks 
'Twas no great matter. But he was 

not vile, 



Only a thing to pity most in man, 
Weak, — only poor, and, if he knew it, 

undone. 
But Herbert ! When she mused on it, 

her soul 
Would fain have hidden him for ever- 
more. 
Even from herself, — so pure of speech, 

so frank. 
So full of household kindness. Ah, so 

good 
And true ! A little, she had sometimes 

thought. 
Despondent for himself, but strong of 

faith 
In God, and faith in her, this man had 

seemed. 



Ay, he was gone! and she whom he 

had wed. 
As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, 

was sad. 
And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and 

send. 
From her small store, money to help 

her need. 
With, "Pray you keep it secret." 

Then the whole 
Of the cruel tale was told. 



What more ? She died. 
Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly, 
Wrote of the end. "Our sister fam 

had seen 
Her husband ; prayed him sore to come. 

But no. 
And then she prayed him that he would 

forgive, 
Madam, her breaking of the truth to 

you. 
Dear madam, he was angry, yet we 

think 
He might have let her see, before she 

died. 
The words she wanted, but he did not 

write 
Till she was gone, — 'I neither can 

forgive. 
Nor would I if I could.' " 



"Patience, my heartl 
And this, then, is the man I loved! " 



126 



LAURA NCR. 



But yet 
He sought a lower level, for he wrote, 
Telling the story with a different hue, — 
Telling of freedom. He desired to 

come, 
"For now," said he, "O love, may all 

be well." 
And she rose up against it in her soul. 
For she despised him. And with pas- 
sionate tears 
Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote 

these words, — 
** Herbert, I will not see you." 

Then she drooped 
Again ; it is so bitter to despise ; 
And all her strength, when autumn 

leaves down dropped. 
Fell from her. " Ah ! " she thought, 

" I rose up once, 
I cannot rise up now ; here is the 

end." 
And all her kinsfolk thought, "It is 

the end." 

But when that other heard, " It is the 
end," 

His heart was sick, and he, as by a 
power 

Far stronger than himself, was driven 
to her. 

Reason rebelled against it, but his will 

Required it of him with a craving 
strong 

As life, and passionate though hope- 
less pain. 

She, when she saw his face, considered 

him 
Full quietly, let all excuses pass 
Not answered, and considered yet 

again. 

"He had heard that she was sick; 

what could he do 
But come, and ask her pardon that he 

came?" 
What could he do, indeed? — a weak 

white girl 
Held all his heartstrings in her small 

white hand; 
—^'^^'-JtQuth, and power, and majesty 
\ hers. 



She looked, and pitied him. 
Then spoke : " He loves me with a love 

that lasts. 
Ah me ! that I might get away from It, 
Or, better, hear it said that love is not, 
And then I could have rest. My time 

is short, 
I th'nk, — so short." And roused 

against himself 
In stormy wiath, that it should be his ■ 

doom I 

Her to disquiet whom he loved, — ay, T 

her 
For whom he would have given all his 

rest. 
If there were any left to give, — he 

took 
Her words up bravely, promising once 

more 
Absence, and praying pardon; but 

some tears 
Dropped quietly upon her cheek. 

" Remain," 
She said, " for there Is something to be 

told. 
Some words that you must hear. 

" And first, hear this : 
God has been good to me ; you riiust 

not think 
That I despair. There Is a quiet time 
Like evening In my soul. I have no 

heart, 
For cruel Herbert killed it long ago. 
And death strides on. Sit, then, and 

give your mind 
To listen, and your eyes to look at me. 
Look at my face, Laurance, how white 

it is; 
Look at my hand, — my beauty Is all 

gone." 
And Laurance lifted up his eyes; he 

looked, 
But answered, from their deeps that 

held no doubt. 
Far otherwise than she had willed: 

they said, 
" Lovelier than ever." 

Yet her words went on, 
Cold, and so quiet, " I have suffered 
much, 



LA URANCE. 



lil 



And I would fain that none who care 

for me 
Should suffer a like pang that I can 

spare. 
Therefore," said she, and not at all 

could blush, 
" I have brought my mind of late to 

think of this: 
That since your life is spoilt (not will- 

inglyj 
My God, not willingly by me), 'twere 

well 
To give you choice 6f griefs. 

" Were it not best 
To weep for a dead love, and after- 
wards 
Be comforted the sooner, that she died 
Remote, and left not in your house and 

hfe 
Aught to remind you? That indeed 

were best. 
But were it best to weep for a dead 

wife. 
And let the sorrow spend and satisfy 
Itself with all expression, and so end? 
I think not so; but if for you 'tis best. 
Then, — do not answer with too sudden 

words : 
It matters much to you ; not much, not 

much 
To me, — then truly I will die your 

■ wife ; 
I will marry you.' ' 

What was he like to say, 
But, overcome with love and tears, to 

choose 
The keener sorrow, — take it to his 

heart. 
Cherish it, make it part of him, and 

watch 
Those eyes, that were his light, till 

they should close? 

He answered her with eager, faltering 

words, 
" I choose, — my heart is yours, — die 

in my arms." 

But was it well? Truly, at first, for 

him 
It was not well : he saw her fade, and 

cried, 



" When may this be ? " She answered, 

" When you wdll," 
And cared not much, for very faint she 

grew, 
Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she 

thought, 
" If I could slip away before the ring 
Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot 
For both, — a blessed thing for him, 

and me." 

But it was not so ; for the day had 

come, — 
Was over : days and months had come,' 

and Death, — 
Within whose shadow she had lain, 

which made 
Earth and its loves, and even its bitter* 

ness. 
Indifferent, — Death withdrew himself, 

and life 
Woke up, and found that it was folded 

fast. 
Drawn to another life forevermore. 
O, what a waking ! After it there came 
Great silence. She got up once more, 

in spring. 
And walked, but not alone, among the 

flowers. 
She thought within herself, "What 

have I done? 
How shall I do the rest?" And he, 

who felt 
Her inmost thought, was silent even as 

she. 
"What have we done?" she thought. 

But as for him. 
When she began to look him in the 

face, 
Considering, "Thus and thus his feat- 
ures are," 
For she had never thought on them be- 

. fore, 
She read their grave repose aright 

She knew 
That in the stronghold of his heart, 

held back. 
Hidden reserves of measureless con- 
tent 
Kept house \vith happy thought, for 

her sake mute. 

Most patient Muriel ! when he brought 
her home, 



128 



LAURANCE. 



She took the place they gave her, — 

strove to please 
His kin, and did not fail ; but yet 

thought on, 
"What have I done? how shall I do 

the rest? 
Ah ! so contented, Laurance, with this 

wife 
That loves you not, for all the stateli- 

ness 
And grandeur of your manhood, and 

the deeps 
In your blue eyes." And after that 

awhile 
She rested from such thinking, put it by 
And waited. She had thought on 

death before: 
But no, this Muriel was not yet to 

die ; 
And when she saw her little tender 

babe. 
She felt how much the happy days of 

life 
Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thing. 
Whom when it slept the lovely mother 

nursed 
With reverent love, whom when it 

woke she fed 
And wondered at, and lost herself in 

long 
Rapture of watching, and contentment 

deep. 

Once while she sat, this babe upon her 

knee, 
Her husband and his father standing 

nigh, 
About to ride, the grandmother, all 

pride 
And consequence, so deep in learned 

talk 
Of infants, and their little ways and 

wiles. 
Broke off to sav, " I never saw a babe 
So like its father." And the thought 

was new 
To Muriel ; she looked up, and when 

she looked, 
Her husband smiled. And she, the 

lovely bloom 

her face, w-ould fain he had 
nown, 
I her surprise. But he did 



Yet there was pleasure in his smile 

and love 
Tender and strong. He kissed her, 

kissed his babe. 
With "Goody, you are left in charge, 

take care." 
"■As if I needed telling," quoth the 

dame ; 
And they were gone. 

Then Muriel, lost in thought, 
Gazed ; and the grandmother, with 

open pride. 
Tended the lovely pair; till Muriel 

said, 
" Is she so like ? Dear granny, get me 

now 
The picture that his father has ; " and 

soon 
The old woman put it in her hand. 

The wife, 
Considering it with deep and strange 

delight. 
Forgot for once her babe, and looked 

and learned. 

A mouth for mastery and manful work, 
A certain brooding sweetness in the 

eyes, 
A brow, the harbor of grave thought, 

and hair 
Saxon of hue. She conned ; then 

blushed again. 
Remembering now, when she had 

looked on him, 
The sudden radiance of her husband's 

smile. 

But Muriel did not send the picture 

back ; 
She kept it ; while her beauty and her 

babe 
Flourished together, and in health an*' 

peace 
She lived. 

Her husband never said to her, 
" Love, are you happy?" never said to 

her, 
" Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, 

whene'er 
They rode together in the lanes, and 

paused. 



LAU RANGE. 



129 



Stopping their horses, when the day- 
was hot, 
In the shadow of a tree, to watch the 

clouds, 
Ruffled in drifting on the ]agged rocks 
That topped the mountauis, — when 

she sat by him, 
Withdrawn at even while the summer 

stars 
Came starting out of nothing, as new 

made, 
She feh a little trouble, and a wish 
That he would yet keep silence, and 

he did. 
That one reserve he would not touch, 

but still 
Respected. 

Muriel grew more brave in time, 
And talked at ease, and felt disquietude 
Fade. And another child was given to 

her. 

"Now we shall do," the old great- 

grandsire cried, 
"For this is the right sort, a boy." 

" Fie, fie," 
Quoth the good dame; "but never 

heed you, love. 
He thinks them both as right as right 

can be." 

But Laurance went from home, ere yet 

the boy 
Was three weeks old. It fretted him 

to go. 
But yet he said, " I must : " and she 

was left 
Much with the kindly dame, whose 

gentle care 
Was l^ke a mother's; and the two 

could talk 
Sweetly, for all the difference in their 

years. 

But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish 
That she had known why Laurance 

left her thus. 
"Ay, love," the dame made answer; 

"for he said, 
•Goody,' before he left, 'if Muriel ask 
No question, tell her naught ; but if 

she let 



Any disquietude appear to you, 

Say what you know.'" "What?" 

Muriel said, and laughed, 
" I ask, then." 

" Child, it is that your old love, 
Some two months past, was here. Nay, 

never start : 
He's gone. He came, our Laurance 

met him near ; 
He said that he was going over seas, 
' And might I see your wife this only 

once, 
And get her pardon ? '" 

" Mercy! " Muriel cried, 
" But Laurance does not wish it?" 

"Nay, now, nay," 
Quoth the good dame. 

" I cannot," Muriel cried : 
" He does not, surely, think I should." 

" Not he," 
The kind old woman said, right sooth- 
ingly. 
" Does not he ever know, love, ever do 
What you like best?" 

And Muriel, trembling yet. 
Agreed. " I heard him say," the 

dame went on, 
" For I was with him when they met 

that day, 
* It would not be agreeable to my wife.' " 

Then Muriel, pondering, — " And he 

said no more ? 
You think he did not add, ' nor to my- 
self ?" 
And with her soft, calm, inward voice, 

the dame 
Unruffled answered, " No, sweet heart, 

not he : ^ 

What need he care ? " " And why not ?^' 

Muriel cried. 
Longing to hear the answer. " O, he 

knows, 
He knows, love, very well:"— with 

that she smiled. 
" Bless your fair face, you have not 

really thought 
He did not know you loved him? " 



I30 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT vVaTCHES. 



Muriel said, 
" He never told me, goody, that he 

knew." 
"Well," quoth the dame, "but it may 

chance, my dear. 
That he thinks best to let old troubles 

sleep : 
Why need to rouse them? You are 

happy, sure? 
But if one asks, ' Art happy ? ' why, it 

sets 
The thoughts a-working. No, say I, 

let love, 
Let peace and happy folk alone. 

" He said, 
* It would not be agreeable to my wife.' 
And he went on to add, in course of 

time 
That he would ask you, when it suited 

you, 
To write a few kind words." 

"Yes," Muriel said, 
" I can do that." 

*' So Laurance went, you see," 
The soft voice added, "to takedown 

that child. 
Laurance had written oft about the 

child, 
And now, at last, the father made it 

known 
He could not take him. He has lost, 

they say. 
His money, with much gambling ; now 

he wants 
To lead a good, true, working life. He 

wrote, 
And let this so be seen, that Laurance 

went 
And took the child, and took the money 

down 
To pay." 

And Muriel found her talking sweet, 
And asked once more, the rather that 

she longed 
To speak again of Laurance, " And you 

think 
He knows I love him? " 

"Ay, good sooth, he knows 
No fear ; but he is like his father, love. 



His father never asked my pretty child 

One prying question ; took her as she 
was ; 

Trusted her ; she has told me so : he 
knew 

A woman's nature. Laurance is the 
same. 

He knows you love him ; but he will 
not speak ; 

No, never. Some men are such gen- 
tlemen ! ' ' 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT 
WATCHES, 

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OP 
EVENING, AND A CONCLUDING 
SONG OF THE EARLY DAY. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

(Old English Maimer.) 

APPRENTICED. 

" Come out and hear the waters shoot, 
the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot ; 
Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, 
hangs dim behind the tree, O ! 
The dropping thorn makes white the 
grass, O sweetest lass, and sweet- 
est lass ; 
Come out and smell the ricks of hay 
adown the croft with me, O ! " 

" My granny nods before her wheel, 
and drops her reel, and drops 
her reel ; 
My father with his crony talks as gay 
as gay can be, O ! 
But all the milk is yet to skim, ere 
light wax dim, ere light wax dim ; 
How can I step adown the croft, my 
'prentice lad, with thee, O?" 

" And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, 
and love is strong, and love is 
strong ; 
And O ! had I but served the tirae^ 
that takes so long to flee, O 1 



SOJVGS OF THE NIGHT IV A TCHES. 



I3J 



And thou, my lass, by morning's light 
wast all in white, wast all in 
white, 
And parson stood within the rails, 
a-marrying me and thee, O." 



THE FIRST WATCH. 



O, I WOULD tell you more, but I am 
tired ; 
-For I have longed, and I have had 
my will ; 
I pleaded in my spirit, I desired : 

"Ah! let me only see him, and be 
still 
All my days after.' ' 

Rock, and rock, and rock, 
Over the falling, rising watery world, 
Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping 
main ; 
The chirping land-birds follow flock on 
flock 
To light on a warmer plain. 
White as weaned lambs the little wave- 
lets curled, 
Fall over in harmless play. 
As these do far away ; 
Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmer- 
ing sea, 
All under thy broad wings that over- 
shadow thee. 



II. 



I am so tired. 
If I would comfort me, I know not 
how, 
For I have seen thee, lad, as I de- 
sired, 
And 1 have nothing left to long for 
now. 

Nothing at all. And did I wait for 
thee, 
Often and often, while the light 
grew dim, 



And through the lilac branches I 
could see, 
Under a saffron sky, the purple 
rim 
O' the heaving moorland? Ay. And 

then would float 
Up from behind — as it were a golden 

boat. 
Freighted with fancies, all o' the won- 
der of life, 
Love — such a slender moon, going 
up and up. 
Waxing so fast from night to night. 
And swelling like an orange flower- 
bud, bright. 
Fated, methought, to round as to a 
golden cup. 
And hold to my two lips life's best of 
wine. 
Most beautiful crescent moon, 
Ship of the sky! 
Across the unfurrowed reaches sail- 
ing high. 
Methought that it would come my 
way full soon, 
Laden with blessings that were all, all 
mine, — 
A golden ship, with balm and spi- 

ceries rife, 
That ere its day was done should 
hear thee call me wife. 



All over! the celestial sign hath failed ; 

The orange flower-bud shuts ; the ship 

hath sailed. 

And sunk behind the long low-lying 

hills. 

The love that fed on daily kisses 

dieth ; 
The love kept warm by nearness lieth, 
Wounded and wan ; . _ 
The love hope nourished bitter tears 
distils, 
And faints with naught to feed 
upon. 
Only there stirreth very deep below 
The hidden beating slow. 
And the blind yearning, and the long 

drawn breath 
Of the love that conquers death. 



132 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



Had we not loved full long, and lost all 

fear, 
My ever, my only dear ? 
Yes; and I saw thee start upon thy 
way. 
So sure that we should meet 
Upon our trysting-day. 
And even absence then to me was 
sweet. 
Because it brought me time to brood 
Upon thy dearness in the solitude. 
But ah ! to stay, and stay, 
And let that moon of April wane it- 
self away. 
And let the lovely May 
Make ready all her buds for June ; 
And let the glossy finch forego her 

tune 
That she brought with her in the 
spring. 
And nevermore, I think, to me can 
sing; 
And then to lead thee home another 
bride. 
In the sultry summer-tide, 
And all forget me save for shame 
full sore. 
That made thee pray me, absent, " See 
my face no more." 



O hard, most hard! But while my 
fretted heart. 
Shut out, shut down, and full of 
pain, 
Sobbed to itself apart, 
Ached to itself in vain. 
One came who loveth me 
As I love thee. . . . 
And let my God remember him for 

this, 
As I do hope He will forget thy kiss, 
Nor visit on thy stately head 
Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or 

thy two eyes have said. . . . 
He came, and it was dark. He came, 

and sighed 
Because he knew the sorrow, — whis- 
pering low, 



And fast, and thick, as one that speaks 
by rote : 
" The vessel lieth in the river reach, 

A mile above the beach. 
And she will sail at the turning o' the 
tide." 
He said, " I have a boat, 
And were it good to go. 
And unbeholden in the vessel's wake 
Look on the man thou lovedst, and 

forgive. 
As he embarks, a shameful fugitive. 
Come, then, with me." 



O, how he sighed ! The little stars 

did wink. 
And it was very dark. I gave my 

hand, — 
He led me out across the pasture 
land. 
And through the narrow croft, 
Down to the river's brink. 
When thou wast full in spring, thou 

little sleepy thing. 
The yellow flags that broidered thee 

would stand 
Up to their chins in water, and full oft 
We pulled them and the other shining 
flowers. 
That all are gone to-day :_ 
We two, that had so many things to 
say, 
So many hopes to render clear : 
And they are all gone after thee, my 
dear, — 
Gone after those sweet hours. 
That tender light, that balmy rain ; 
Gone "as a wind that passeth 
away. 
And Cometh not again." 



I only saw the stars, — I could not 
see • 
The river, — and they seemed to lie 
As far below as the other stars were 
high. 
I trembled like a thing about to 
die : 
It was so awful 'neath the majesty 



1 



SOATGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



133 



Of that great crystal height, that 
overhung 
The blackness at our feet, 
Unseen to fleet and fleet 
The flocking stars among, 
And only hear the dipping of the 
oar, 
And the small wave's caressing of the 
darksome shore. 



Less real it was than any dream. 
Ah me ! to hear the bending willows 

shiver. 
As we shot quickly from the silent 
river. 
And felt the swaying and the flow 
That bore us down the deeper, wider 
stream. 
Whereto its nameless waters go: 
O ! I shall always, when I shut mine 
eyes, _ _ ; 

See that weird sight again ; 
The lights from anchored vessels 

hung ; 
The phantom moon, that sprung 
Suddenly up in dim and angry wise 
From the rim o' the moaning 

main. 
And touched with elfin light 
The two long oars whereby we made 
our flight 
Along the reaches of the night ; 
Then furrowed up a lowering cloud. 
Went in, and left us darker than 
before. 
To feel our way as the midnight watches 

wore, 
And lie in her lee, with mournful faces 

bowed, 
That should receive and bear with her 

away 
The brightest portion of my sunniest 

day, — 
The laughter of the land, the sweetness 
of the shore. 



And I beheld thee: saw the lantern 

flash 
Down on thy face when thou didst 

climb the side. 



And thou wert pale, pale as the patient 
bride 
That followed : both a little sad. 
Leaving of home and kin. Thy cour- 
age glad, 
That once did bear thee on. 
That brow of thine had lost ; the fervor 

rasli 
Of unforeboding youth thou hadst fore- 
gone. 
O, what a little moment, what a crumb 
Of comfort for a heart to feed upon ! 
And that was all its sum : 
A glimpse, and not a meeting, — 
A drawing near by night. 
To sigh to thee an unacknowledged 

greeting. 
And all between the flashing of a 
light 
And its retreating. 



Then after, ere she spread her wafting 

wings. 
The ship, — and weighed her anchor to 

depart, 
We stole from her dark lee, like guilty 
things ; 
And there was silence in my heart, 
And silence in the upper and the nether 
deep. 
« O sleep ! O sleep ! 
Do not forget me. Sometimes come 

and sweep. 
Now I have nothing left, thy healing 

hand 
Over the lids that crave thy visits 
bland. 
Thou kind, thou comforting oner 
For I have seen his face, as I de- 
sired, 
And all my story is done. 
O, I am tired! 



THE MIDDLE WATCH. 



I WOKE in the night, and the darkness 
was heavy and deep ; 
I had known it was dark in my 
sleep, 



134 



SOATGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



And I rose and looked out, 
And the fathomless vault was all spark- 
ling, set thick round about 
With the ancient inhabiters silent, and 

wheeling too far 
For man's heart, like a voyaging frig- 
ate, to sail, where remote 
In the sheen of their glory they float. 
Or man' s soul, like a bird, to fly near, 
of their beams to partake, 
And dazed in their wake. 
Drink day that is born of a star. 
I murmured, " Remoteness and great- 
ness, how deep you are set. 
How afar in the rim of the whole ; 
You know nothing of me, nor of man, 

nor of earth, O, nor yet . 
Of our light-bearer, — drawing the 
marvellous moons as they roll. 
Of our regent, the sun. 
I look on you trembling, and think, in 

the dark with my soul, 
" How small is our place 'mid the king- 
doms and nations of God : 
These are greater than we, every 
one" 
And there falls a great fear, and a 
dread cometh over, that cries, 
"O my hope! Is there any mis- 
take? 
Did He speak? Did I hear? Did I 

listen aright, if He spake? 
Did I answer Him duly? for surely I 
now am awake. 
If never I woke until now." 
And a light, baffling wind, that leads 
nowhither, plays on my brow. 
As a sleep, I must think on my day, of 

my path as untrod, 
Or trodden in dreams, in a dreamland 

whose coasts are a doubt ; 
Whose countries recede from my 
thoughts, as they grope round 
about, 
And vanish, and tell me not how. 
Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, 
dwelling in light, 
And feeding the lamps of the sky ; 
Look down upon this one, and let it be 
sweet in Thy sight, 
I pray Thee, to-night. 
O watch whom Thou madest to dwell 
on its soil, Thou Most High 1 



For this is a world full of sorrow (there 

may be but one) ; 
Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy 

children for aye are undone. 
For this is a world where we die. 



With that, a still voice in my spirit that 
moved and that yearned 
(There fell a great calm while it 
spake), 
I had heard it erewhile, but the noises 

of life are so loud. 
That sometimes it dies in the cry of the 

street and the crowd: 
To the simple it cometh, — the child, or 

asleep, or awake. 
And they know not from whence ; of 
its nature the wise iiever learned 
By his wisdom ; its secret the worker 

ne'er earned 
By his toil ; and the rich among men 
never bought with his gold ; 
Nor the times of its visiting mon- 
archs controlled, 
Nor the jester put down with his 
jeers 
(For it moves where it will), nor 
its season the aged discerned 
By thought, in the ripeness of 
years. 



O elder than reason, and stronger than 
will ! 
A voice, when the dark world is 
still : 

Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, 
Thou knowest ! and we, — 

We are sure of that witness, that sense 
which is sent us of Thee ; 

For it moves, and it yearns in its fellow- 
ship mighty and dread. 

And let down to our hearts it is touch- 
ed by the tears that we shed ; 

It is more than all meanings, and over 
all strife ; 
On its tongue are the laws of our 

life, 
And it counts up the times of the 
dead. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WA TCHES. 



'35 



I will fear you, O stars, never more. 
I have felt it ! Go on, while the 

world is asleep, 
Golden islands, fast moored in God's 
infinite deep. 
Hark, hark to the words of sweet fash- 
ion, the harpings of yore! 
How they sang to Him, seer and saint, 
in the far away lands : 
"The heavens are the work of 

Thy hands ; 
They shall perish, but Thou shalt 
endure ; 
Yea, they all shall wax old, — 
But Thy throne is established, O God, 
and Thy years are made sure ; 
They shall perish, but Thou shalt 

endure, — 
They shall pass like a tale that is 
told." 

Doth He answer, the Ancient of 

Days? 
Will He speak in the tongue and 
the fashion of men ? 
(Hist! hist! while the heaven-hung 
multitudes shine in His praise, 
His language of old.) Nay, He spoke 
with them first ; it was then 
They lifted their eyes to His 
throne : 
*' They shall call on Me, * Thou art our 
Father, our God, Thou alone ! ' 
For I made them, I led them in des- 
erts and desolate ways ; 
I have found them a Ransom Di- 
vine ; 
I have loved them with love everlasting, 
the children of men ; 
I swear by Myself, they are 
Mine." 



THE MORNING WATCH. 

THB COMING IN OF THE " MER- 
MAIDEN." 

The moon is bleached as white as 
wool. 
And just dropping under ; 



Every star is gone but three, 
And they hang far asunder, — 

There's a sea-ghost all in gray, 
A tall shape of wonder ! 

I am not satisfied with sleep, — 

The night is not ended. 
But look how the sea-ghost comes. 

With wan skirts extended. 
Stealing up in this weird hour. 

When light and dark are blended. 

A vessel ! To the old pier end 
Her happy course she's keeping; 

I heard them name her yesterday : 
Some were pale with weeping ; 

Some with their heart-hunger sighed ; . 
She's in, — and they are sleeping. 

O ! now with fancied greetings blest, 
They comfort their long aching : 

The sea of sleep hath borne to them 
What would not come with waking, 

And the dreams shall most be true 
In their blissful breaking. 

The stars are gone, the rose-bloom 
comes, -^ 

No blush of maid is sweeter ; 
The red sun, half way out of bed, 

Shall be tiie first to greet her. 
None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, 

And rise, and run to meet hen 

Their lost they have, they hold ; from 
pain 

A keener bliss they borrow. 
How natural is joy, my heart! 

How easy after sorrow ! 
For once, the best is come that hope 

Promised them "to-morrow." 



CONCLUDING SONG OF 
DAWN. 

{Old English Manner.) 

A MORN OF MAY. 

All the clouds about the sun lay up in 

golden creases 
(Merry rings the maiden's voice that 

sings at dawn of day) j 



136 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Lambkins woke and skipped around to 

dry their dewy fleeces, 
So sweetly as she carolled, all on a 

morn of May. 

Quoth the Sergeant, '* Here I'll halt ; 

here's wine of joy for drinking ; 
To my heart she sets her hand, and in 

the strings doth play ; 
All among the daffodils, and fairer to 

my thinking, 
And fresh as milk and roses, she sits 

this morn of May." 

Quoth the Sergeant, "Work is work, 

but any ye might make me. 
If I worked for you, dear lass, I'd 

count my holiday. 
I'm your slave for good and all, an' if 

ye will but take me. 
So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn 

of May." 

" Medals count for worth," quoth she, 

" and scars are worn for honor ; 
But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go 

your way." 
All the nodding daffodils woke up 

and laughed upon her. 
O! sweetly did she carol, all on that 

morn of May. 

Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they 

fluttered fast and faster, 
Fretting brook, till he would speak, did 

chide the dull delay : 
" Beauty ! when I said a slave, I think 

I meant a master ; 
So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn 

of May. 

" Lass, I love you ! Love is strong, and 

some men's hearts are tender." 
Far she sought o'er wood and wold, 

but found not aught to say ; 
Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would 

any counsel render, 
Though sweetly she had carolled upon 

that morn of May. 

Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and 
deemed the wooing mended; 

Proper man he was, good sooth, and 
one would have his way : 



So the lass was made a wife, and so the 

song was ended. 
O ! sweetly she did carol all ^on that 

morn of May. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

BOOK I. 

NiLOiYA said to Noah, " What aileth 
thee, 

My master, unto whom is my desire, 

The father of my sons?" He an- 
swered her, 

" Mother of many children, I have 
heard 

The Voice again." "Ah, me!" she 
saith, "ah, me! 

What spake it ? " and with that Niloiya 
sighed. 

This when the Master-builder heard, 
his heart 

Was sad in him, the while he sat at 
home 

And rested after toil. The steady rap 

O' the shipwright's hammer sounding 
up the vale 

Did seem to mock him ; but her dis- 
taff down 

Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace 
went. 

Parted the purple covering seemly 
hung 

Before it, and let in the crimson light 

Of the descending sun. Then looked 
he forth, — 

Looked, and beheld the hollow where 
the ark 

Was a-preparing; where the dew dis- 
tilled 

All night from leaves of old lign aloe- 
trees. 

Upon the gliding river; where the 
palm. 

The almug, and the gophir shot their 
heads 

Into the crimson brede that dyed the 
world : 

Andlo! he marked — umvieldy, dark, 
and huge — 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



137 



The ship, his glory and his grief, — too 
vast 

For that still river's floating, — build- 
ing far 

From mightier streams, amid the pas- 
toral dells 

Of shepherd kings. 

Niloiya spake again : 

" What said the Voice, thou well-be- 
loved man?" 

He, laboring with , his thought that 
troubled him, 

Spoke on behalf of God : " Behold," 
said he, 

*' A little handful of unlovely dust 

He fashioned to a lordly grace, and 
when 

He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed 
warm, 

And with His breath awoke a living 
soul. 

" Shall not the Fashioner command 

His work? 
And who am I, that, if he whisper, 

' Rise, 
Go forth upon Mine errand,' should 

reply, 
* Lord, God, I love the woman and her 

sons, — 
I love not scorning ; I beseech Thee, 

God, 
Have me excused.' " 



She answered him, " Tell on." 
And he continuing, reasoned with his 

soul : 
"What though I — like some goodly 

lama sunk 
In meadow grass, eating her way at 

ease, 
Unseen of them that pass, and asking 

not 
A wider prospect than of yellow flowers 
That nod above her head — should lay 

me down. 
And willingly forget this high behest. 
There should be yet no tarrying. Fur- 
thermore, 
Though I went forth to cry against the 

doom. 



Earth crieth louder, and she draws it 

down: 
It hangeth balanced over us ; she cri- 
eth, 
And it shall fall. O! as for me, my 

life 
Is bitter, looking onward, for I know 
That in the fulness of the time shall 

dawn 
That day: my preaching shall not 

bring forth fruit. 
Though for its sake I leave thee. I 

shall float 
Upon the abhorred sea, that mankind 

hate. 
With thee and thine." 



She answered : " God forbid ! 

For, sir, though men be evil, yet the 
deep 

They dread, and at the last will surely 
turn 

To Him, and He, long-suffering, will 
forgive. 

And chide the waters back to their 
abyss, 

To cover the pits where doleful creat- 
ures feed. 

Sir, I am much afraid ; I would not 
hear 

Of riding on the waters: look you, 
sir. 

Better it were to die with you by hand 

Of them that hate us, than to live, ah 
me ! 

Rolling among the furrows of the un- 
quiet, 

Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful 
sea." 

He saith again : " I pray thee, woman, 
peace. 

For thou wilt enter, when that day ap- 
pears, 

The fateful ship." 

" My lord," quoth she, " I will. 
But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sure 
The Master calleth; for the time is 

long 
That thou hast warned the world: 

thou art but here 



m 



138 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Three days ; the song of welcoming but 

now 
Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad : 
And wilt thou go again? Husband, I 

say. 
Be sure who 't is that calleth ; O, be 

sure, 
Be sure. My mother's ghost came up 

last night, 
Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands, 

did kiss. 
Leaning anear thee, wakeful through 

my love. 
And watchful of thee till the moon 

went down. 

" She never loved me since I went with 

thee 
To sacrifice among the hills: she 

smelt 
The holy smoke, and could no more 

divine 
Till the new moon. I saw her ghost 

come up ; 
It had a snake with a red comb of fire 
Twisted about its waist, — the doggish 

head 
Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at 

me. 
'This woman might be wiser,' quoth 

the ghost ; 
* Shall there be husbands for her found 

below, 
When she comes down to us ? O, fool ! 

O, fool ! 
She must not let her man go forth, to 

leave 
Her desolate, and reap the whole 

world's scorn, 
A harvest for himself.' With that they 

passed." 

He said: " My crj'stal drop of perfect- 

ness, 
I pity thee ; it was an evil ghost : 
Thou wilt not heed the counsel ? " "I 

will not," 
Quoth she ; " I am loyal to the Highest. 

Him 
I hold by even as thou, and deem Him 

best. 
Sir, am I fairer than when last we 

met?" 



"God add," said he, "unto thy much 

yet more, 
As I do think thou art." "And think 

you, sir," 
Niloiya saith, "that I have reached 

the prime?" 
He answering, "Nay, not yet." "I 

would ' twere so, " 
She plaineth, "for the daughters mock 

at me : 
Her locks forbear to^grow, they say, so 

sore 
She pineth for the Master. Look you, 

sir, 
They reach but to the knee. But 

thou art come. 
And all goes merrier, Eat, my lord, of 

all 
My supper that I set, and afterward 
Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy 

way ; 
Else shall I be despised as Adam was. 
Who compassed not the learning of his 

sons, 
But, grave and silent, oft would lower 

his head 
And ponder, following of great Isha's 

feet. 
When she would walk with her fair 

brow upraised, 
Scorning the children that she bare to 

him." 

"Ay," quoth the Master; "but they 

did amiss 
When . they despised their father: 

knowest thou that ? " 



" Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith, 

"Than any that came after. Further- 
more, 

He had not heart nor courage for to 
rule : 

He let the mastery fall from his slack 
hand. 

Had not our glorious mother still borne 
up 

His weakness, chid with him, and sat 
apart, 

And listened, when the fit came over 
him 

To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk 

Into the slave of slaves." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



139 



" Nay, thou must think 
How he had dwelt long, God's loved 

husbandman, 
And looked in hope among the tribes 

for one 
To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once 
Waking, he found at his left side, and 

knew 
The deep delight of speech." So 

Noah, and thus 
Added, "And therefore was his loss 

the more ; 
For though the creatures he had singled 

out 
His favorites, dared for him the fiery 

sword 
And followed after him, — shall bleat of 

lamb 
Console one for the foregone talk of 

God? 
Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog, 
Fawning upon him, make his heart 

forget 
At such a time, and such a time, to 

have heard 
What he shall hear no more ? 



"O, as for him. 

It was for this that he full oft would 
stop, 

And, lost in thought, stand and revolve 
that deed, 

Sad muttering, ' Woman ! we reproach 
thee not ; 

Though thou didst eat mine immor- 
tality ; 

Earth, be not sorrj' ; I was free to 
choose.' 

Wonder not, therefore, if he walked 
forlorn. 

Was not the helpmeet given to raise 
him up 

From his contentment with the lower 
things ? 

Was she not somewhat that he could 
not rule 

Beyond the action, that he could not 
have 

By the mere holding, and that still as- 
pired 

And drew him after her? So, when 
deceived 

She fell by great desire to rise, he fell 



By loss of upward drawing, when she 

took 
An evil tongue to be her counsellor : 
'Death is not as the death of lower 

things, 
Rather a glorious change, begrudged 

of Heaven, 
A change to being as gods,' — he from 

her hand. 
Upon reflection, took of death that hour, 
And ate it (not the death that she had 

dared) ; 
He ate it knowing. Then divisions 

came. 
She, like a spirit strayed who lost the 

way. 
Too venturesome, among the farther 

stars, 
And hardly cares, because it hardly 

hopes 
To find the path to heaven ; in bitter 

wise 
Did bear to him degenerate seed, and 

he. 
Once having felt her upward drawing, 

longed. 
And yet aspired, and yearned to be re- 
stored, 
Albeit she drew no more." 



" Sir, ye speak well," 
Niloiya saith, "but yet the mother sits 
Higher than Adam. He did under- 
stand 
Discourse of birds and all four-footed 

things, 
But she had knowledge of the many 

tribes 
Of angels and their tongues; their 

playful ways 
And greetings when they met. Was 

she not wise? 
They say she knew much that she never 

told. 
And had a voice that called to her as 

thou." 

" Nay," quoth the Master-shipwTight, 

"who am I 
That I should answer? As for me, 

poor man, 
Here is my trouble : * if there be a 

Voice,' 



I40 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



At first I cried, * let me behold the 

mouth 
That uttereth it.' Thereon it held its 

])eace. 
But afterward, I, journeying up the 

hills, 
Did hear it hollower than an echo 

fallen 
Across some clear abyss ; and I did 

stop, 
And ask of all my company, * What 

cheer ? 
If there be spirits abroad that call to 

us. 
Sirs, hold your peace and hear.' So 

they gave heed. 
And one man said, ' It is the small 

ground-doves 
That peck upon the stony hillocks ; ' 

one, 

* It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp 
That cheweth in his dream ;' and one, 

' My lord, 
It is the ghost of him that yesternight 
We slew, because he grudged to yield 

his wife 
To thy great father, when he peaceably 
Did send to take her.' Then I an- 
swered, ' Pass,' 
And they went on ; and I did lay mine 

ear 
Close to the earth ; but there came up 

therefrom 
No sound, nor any speech ; I waited 

long, 
And in the saying, ' I will mount my 

beast 
And on,' I was as one that in a trance 
Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw 
Great waters and a ship ; and somewhat 

spake, 

* Lo, this shall be ; let him that heareth 

it, 
And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind, 
For I will drown the world. ' " 

Niloiya saith, 
*' Sir, was that all that ye went forth 

upon?" 
The Master, he replieth, "Ay, at first, 
That same was all ; but many days 

went by. 
While I did reason with my heart and 

hope 



For more, and struggle to remain, and 

think, 
' Let me be certain ; ' and so think 

again, 
' The counsel is but dark ; would I had 

more ! 
When I have more to guide me, I will 

go.' 
And afterward, when reasoned on too 

much. 
It seemed remoter, then I only said, 
' O, would I had the same again ; ' and 

still 
I had it not. 

" Then at the last I cried, 
' If the unseen be silent, I will speak 
And certify my meaning to myself. 
Say that He spoke, then He will make 

that good 
Which He hath spoken. Therefore it 

were best 
To go, and do His bidding. All the 

earth 
Shall hear the judgment so, and none 

may cry 
When the doom falls, "Thou God art 

hard on us ; * 

We knew not Thou wert angry. Ol 

we are lost, 
Only for lack of being warned." 

" ' But say 
That He spoke not, and merely it befell 
That I being weary had a dream. 

Why, so 
He could not suffer damage ; when the 

time 
Was past, and that I threatened had 

not come, 
Men would cry out on me, haply me 

kill, 
For troubling their content. They 

would not swear 
" God, that did send this man, is proved 

untrue," 
But rather, " Let hmr die ; he lied to 

us ; 
God never sent him." Only Thou, 

great King, 
Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I 

leave 
The matter here. If Thou wilt speak 

again, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



141 



I go fii gladness ; if thou wilt not speak, 
Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the 

less 
Shall go, because I have believed, 

what time 
I seemed to hear Thee, and the going 

stands 
With memory of believing.' Then I 

washed. 
And did array me in the sacred gown, 
And take a lamb." 

" Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, 
'' I following, and I knew not anything 
Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two 

arms, 
We, moving up among the silent hills. 
Paused in a grove to rest ; and many 

slaves 
Came near to make obeisance, and to 

bring 
Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and 

fire. 
Then in their hearing thou didst say to 

me, 
' Behold, I know thy good fidelity, 
And theirs that are about us ; they 

would guard 
The mountain passes, if it were my 

will 
Awhile to leave thee ; ' and the pygmies 

laughed 
For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior 

things ; 
And put their heads down, as their 

manner is, 
To touch our feet. They laughed, but 

sore I wept ; 
Sir, I could weep now ; ye did ill to go 
If that was all your bidding; I had 

thought 
God drave thee, and thou couldst not 

choose but go." 

Then said the son of Lamech, "After- 
ward, 

When I had left thee, He whom I had 
served 

Met with me in the visions of the night. 

To comfort me for that I had with- 
drawn 

From thy dear company. He sware to 



That no man should molest thee, no, 

nor touch 
The bordering of mine utmost field. I 

say, 
When I obeyed, He made His matters 

plain. 
With whom could I have left thee, but 

with them, 
Born in thy mother's house, and bound 

thy slaves?" 

She said, " I love not pygmies ; they 

are naught." 
And he, '" Who made them pygmies?" 

Then she puslied 
Her veiling hair back from her round, 

soft eyes, 
And answered, wondering, "Sir, my 

mothers did ; 
Ye know it." And he drew her near 

to sit 
Beside him on the settle, answering, 

"Ay." 
And they went on to talk as writ below, 
If any one shall read : 

" Thy mother did, 
And they that went before her. Think- 

est thou 
That they did well?" 

" They had been overcome ; 
And when the angered conquerors 

drave them out, 
Behooved them find some other way 

to rule, 
They did but use their wits. Hath 

not man aye 
Been cunning in dominion, among 

beasts 
To breed for size or swiftness, or for 

sake 
Of the white wool he loveth, at hi.'? 

choice ? 
What harm if coveting a race of men 
That could but serve, they sought 

among their thralls. 
Such as were low of stature, men and 

maids ; 
Ay, and of feeble will and quiet mind ? 
Did they not spend much gear to gathet 

out 
Such as I tell of, and for matcUinf,' 

them 



[42 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



One with another for a thousand years ? 
What harm, then, if there came of it a 

race, 
Inferior in their wits, and in their size. 
And well content to serve ? " 

" 'What harm?' thou sayest. 
My wife doth ask, ' What harm? ' " 

"Your pardon, sir. 
I do remember that there came one 

day, . 
Two of the grave old angels that God 

made. 
When first He invented life (right old 

they were, 
And plain, and venerable) ; and they 

said. 
Rebuking of my mother as with hers 
She sat, Ye do not well, you wives of 

men. 
To match your wit against the Maker's 

will, 
And for your benefit to lower the stamp 
Of His fair image, which He set at first 
Upon man' s goodly frame ; ye do not 

well 
To treat His likeness even as ye treat 
The bird and beast that perish.' " 

" Said they aught 
To appease the ancients, or to speak 
them fair?" 

"How know I? 'Twas a slave that 

told it me. 
My mother was full old when I was 

born, 
And that was in her youth. What 

think you, sir? 
Did not the giants likewise ill? " 

"To that 
I have no answer ready. If a man, 
When each one is against his fellow, 

rule. 
Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved, 
Because, for size and strength, he 

standeth first. 
He will thereof be glad ; and if he say, 
* I will to wife choose me a stately maid. 
And leave a goodly oflEspring ; ' 'sooth, 

I think, 



He sinneth not ; for good to him and 

his 
He would be strong and great. Thy 

people's fault 
Was, that for ill to others, they did 

plot 
To make them weak and small." 

" But yet they steal 
Or take in war the strongest maids, and 

such 
As are of highest stature ; ay, and oft 
They figiit among themselves for that . 

same cause. 
And they are proud against the King 

of heavea : 
They hope in course of ages they shall 

come 
To be as strong as He." 

The Master said, 

" I will not hear thee talk thereof ; my 
heart 

Is sick fqr all this wicked world. Fair 
wife, 

I a!n right weary. Call thy slaves to 
thee. 

And bid that they prepare the sleeping 
place. 

O would that I might rest! I fain 
would rest, 

And, no more wandering, tell a thank- 
less world 

My never-heeded tale ! " 

With that she called. 
The moon was up, and some few stars 

were out. 
While heavy at the hean he walked 

abroad 
To meditate before his sleep. And 

yet 
Niloiya pondered, "Shall my master 

go? 
And will my master go? What 'vail- 

eth it, 
That he doth spend himself, over the 

waste 
A-wandering, till he reach outlandish 

folk. 
That mock his warning? O, what 

'vaileth it, 
That he doth lavish wealth to build yon 

ark, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



143 



Whereat the daughters, when they eat 

with me, 
Laugh? O my heart! I would the 

Voice were stilled. 
Is not he happy? Who, of all the 

earth, 
Obeyeth like to me? Have not I 

learned 
From his dear mouth to utter seemly 

words. 
And lay the powers my mother gave 

me by? 
Have I made offerings to the dragon ? 

Nay. 
And I am faithful, when he leaveth 

me 
Lonely betwixt the peaked mountain 

tops 
In this long valley, where no stranger 

foot 
Can come without my will. He shall 

not go. 
Not yet, not yet! But three days — 

only three — 
Beside me, and a-muttering on the 

third, 
•I have heard the Voice again.' Be 

dull, O dull, 
Mind and remembrance ! Mother, ye 

did ill ; 
'Tis hard unlawful knowledge not to 

use. 
Why, O dark mother!, opened ye the 

way?" 
Yet when he entered, and did lay aside 
His costly robe of sacrifice, — the robe 
Wherein he had been offering, ere the 

sun 
Went down, — forgetful of her mother's 

craft. 
She lovely and submiss did mourn to 

him : 
"Thou wilt not go, — I pray thee do 

not go. 
Till thou hast _ seen thy children." 

And he said, 
" I will not. I have cried, and have 

prevailed : 
To-morrow it is given me by the Voice 
Upon a four-dayV journey to proceed, 
And follow down the river, till its 

waves 
Are swallowed in the sand, where no 

flesh dwells. 



"'There,' quoth the Unrevealed, 'we 
shall meet, 

And I will counsel thee ; and thou 
shalt turn 

And rest thee with the mother, and 
with them 

She bare.' Now, therefore, when the 
morn appears. 

Thou fairest among women, call ihy 
slaves. 

And bid them yoke the steers, and 
spread thy car 

With robes, the choicest work of cun- 
ning hands ; 

Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck 

Thy locks with gold ; and while the 
hollow vale 

I thread beside yon river, go thou forth 

Atween the mountains to my father's 
house. 

And let thy slaves make all obeisance 
due. 

And take and lay an offering at his feet. 

Then light, and cry to him, 'Great 
king, the son 

Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent 

To fetch the growing maids, his chil- 
dren, home.' " 

" Sir," quoth the woman, " I will do 
this thing. 

So thou keep faith with me,, and yet re- 
turn. 

But will the Voice, think you, forbear 
to chide. 

Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet 
thee. 

And drive thee on?" 

He saith, " It will keep faith. 

Fear not. I have prevailed, for I be- 
sought. 

And lovingly it answered. I shall rest, 

And dwell with thee till after my three 
sons 

Come from the chase." She said, " I 
let them forth 

In fear, for they are young. Their 
slaves are few. 

The giant elephants be cunning folk ; 

They lie in ambush, and will draw men 
on 

To follow, — then will turn and tread 
them down." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



"Thy father's house unwisely plan- 
ned," said he, 

•'To drive them down upon the grow- 
ing corn 

Of theni that were their foes ; for now, 
behold, 

They suffer while the unwieldy beasts 
delay 

Retirement to their lands, and, mean- 
while, pound 

The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy 
mash; 

Or wallowing in the waters foul them ; 
nay. 

Tread down the banks, and let them 
forth to flood 

Their cities; or, assailed and falling, 
shake 

The walls, and taint the wind, ere 
thirty men, 

Over the hairy terror piling stones 

Or earth, prevail to cover it." 

She said, 
" Husband, I have been sorry, think- 
ing oft 
I would my sons were home ; but now 

so well 
Methinks it is with me, that I am fain 
To wish they might delay, for thou 

wilt dwell 
With me till after they return, and thou 
Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then, 

ah me ! 
I must sit joyless in my place ; bereft, 
As trees that suddenly have dropped 

their leaves. 
And dark as nights that have no moon." 

She spake : 
The hope o' the world did hearken, 

but reply 
Made none. He left his hand on her 

fair locks 
As she lay sobbing ; and the quietness 
Of night began to comfort her, the fall 
Of far-off waters, and the winged wind 
That went among the trees. The pa- 
tient hand. 
Moreover, that was steady, wrought 

with her. 
Until she said, " What wilt thou ? Nay, 
I know. 



I therefore answer what thou utterest 

not. 
Thou lovest me well, and not for thine 

own will 
Cofisentest to depart. What more? 

Aj^, this: 
/ do avow that He which calleth thee 
Hath right to call; and I do swear 

the Voice 
Shall Jiave no let of me to do Its 

wilV 



Now ere the sunrise, while the morn- 
ing star 

Hung yet behind the pine-bough, woke 
and prayed 

The world's great shipwright, and his 
soul was glad 

Because the Voice was favorable. Now 

Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran 
forth 

The slaves preparing food. They there- 
fore ate 

In peace together ; then Niloiya forth 

Behind the milk-white steers went on 
her way ; 

And the great Master-builder, down the 
course 

Of the long river, on his errand sped, 

And as he went, he thought : 

[They do not well 
Who, walking up a trodden path, all 

smooth 
With footsteps of their fellows, and 

made straight 
From town to town, will scorn at them 

that wonn 
Under the covert of God's eldest trees 
(Such as He planted with His hand, 

and fed 
With dew before rain fell, till they 

stood close 
And awful ; drank the light up as it 

dropt, 
And kept the dusk of ages at their 

roots), — 
They do not well who mock at such, 

and cry, 
"We peaceably, without or fault or 

fear, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



M5 



Proceed, and miss not of our end ; but 

these 
Are slow and fearful: with uncertain 

pace, 
And ever reasoning of the way, they 

oft, 
After all reasoning, choose the worser 

course. 
And, plunged in swamp, .or in the mat- 
ted growth 
Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach 

a goal 
Not worth their pains." Nor do they 

well whose, work 
Is still to feed and shelter them and 

theirs. 
Get gain, and gathered store it, to 

think scorn 
Of those who work for a world (no 

wages paid 
By a Master hid in light), and sent 

alone 
To face a laughing multitude, whose 

eyes 
Are full of damaging pity, that forbears 
To tell the harmless laborer, "Thou 

art mad."] 



And as he went, he thought: "They 

counsel me, 
Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, 
' Consider ; call thy soberer thought to 

aid ; 
Why to but one man should a message 

come ? 
And why, if but to one, to thee? Art 

thou 
Above us, greater, wiser? Had He 

sent, 
He had willed that we should heed. 

Then since He knoweth 
That such as thou a wise man cannot 

heed. 
He did not send.' My answer, ' Great 

and wise, 
If He had sent with thunder, and a 

voice 
Leaping from heaven, ye must have 

heard ; but so 
Ye had been robbed of choice, and, 

like the beasts, 
Yoked to obedience. God makes no 

men slaves.' 



They tell me, ' God is great above thy 

thought: 
He meddles not ; and this small world 

is ours. 
These many hundred years we govern 

it; 
Old Adam, after Eden, saw Him 

not.' 
Then I, 'It may be He is gone to 

knead 
More clay. But look, my masters ; 

one of you. 
Going to warfare, layeth up his gown. 
His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no 

more 
Upon it, till young trees have waxen 

great ; 
At last, when he retumeth, he will 

seek 
His own. And God, shall He not do 

the like ? 
And, having set new worlds a-rolling, 

come 
And say, " I will betake Me to the 

earth 
That I did make ;" and, having found 

it vile. 
Be sorry. Why should man be free, 

you wise, 
And not the Master ? ' Then they an- 
swer, ' Fool ! 
A man shall cast a stone into the air 
For pastime, or for lack of heed, — but 

He! 
Will He come fingering of His ended 

work, 
Fright it with His approaching face, or 

snatch 
One day the rolling wonder from its 

ring, _ 
And hold it quivering, as a wanton 

child 
Might take a nestling from its downy 

bed. 
And having satisfied a careless wish. 
Go thrust it back into its place again ? ' 
To such I answer, and, that doubt once 

mine, 
I am assured that I do speak aright : 
' Sirs, the significance of this your 

doubt 
Lies in the reason of it ; ye do grudge 
That these your lands should have 

another Lord: 



146 



A STORV OF DOOM. 



Ye are not loj'al, therefore ye would 

fain 
Your King would bide afar. But if ye 

looked 
For countenance and favor when He 

came, 
Knowing yourselves right worthy, 

would ye care, 
With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, 

to prove 
That He would never come, and would 

your wrath 
Be hot against a prophet? Nay, I 

wot 
That as a flatterer you would look on 

him, — 
" Full of sweet words thy mouth is : if 

He come, — 
We think not that He will, — but if 

He come. 
Would it might be to-morrow, or to- 
night, 
Because we look for praise." ' " 

Now, as he went, 
The noontide heats came on, and he 

grew faint ; 
But while he sat below an almug-tree, 
A slave approached with greeting. 

"Master, hail! " 
He answered, "Hail! what wilt thou?" 

Then she said, 
"The palace of thy fathers standeth 

nigh." 
*' I know it," quoth he ; and she said 

again, 
"The Elder, learning thou wouldst 

pass, hath sent 
To fetch thee." Then he rose and 

followed her. 
So first they walked beneath a lofty 

roof 
Of living bough and tendril, woven on 

high 
To let no drop of sunshine through, 

and hung 
With gold and purple fruitage, and the 

white 
Thick cups of scented blossom. Un- 
derneath, 
Soft grew the sward and delicate, and 

flocks 
Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood 

up, 



Fanning their vnngs, to agitate anc 
cool 

The noonday air, as men with heed 
and pains 

Had taught them, marshalling and tam- 
ing them 

To bear the wind in on their movirg 
wings. 

So long time as a nimble slave would 

spend 
In milking of her cow, they walked at 

ease ; 
Then reached the palace, all of forest 

trunks. 
Brought whole and set together, made. 

Therein 
Had dwelt old Adam, when his mighty 

sons 
Had finished it, and up to Eden gate 
Had journeyed for to fetch him. 

" Here," they said, 
" Mother and father, ye may dwell, 

and here 
Forget the garden wholly." 

So he came 

Under the doorplace, and the women 
sat, 

Each with her finger on her lips; but 
he. 

Having been called, went on, until he 
reached 

The jewelled settle, wrought with cun- 
ning work 

Of gold and ivory, whereon they wont 

To set the Elder. All with sleekest 
skins, 

That striped and spotted creatures of 
the wood 

Had worn, the seat was covered, but 
thereon 

The Elder was not : by the steps there- 
of, 

Upon the floor, whereto his silver 
beard 

Did reach, he sat, and he was in his 
trance. 

Upon the settle many doves were per- 
ched, 

That set the air a-going with their 
wings : 

These opposite, the world's great ship- 
wright stood 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



U7 



To vrtiH (he burden; and the Elder 

spake : 
"Will He forget me? Would He 

might forget! 
Old, old ! The hope of old Methuse- 
lah 
Is all in His forgetfulness." With 

that, 
A slave-girl took a cup of wine, and 

crept 
Anear him, saying, "Taste;" and 

when his lips 
Had touched it, lo,,he trembled, and 

he cried, 
" Behold, I prophesy." 

Then straight they fled 
That were about him, and did stand 

apart 
And stop their ears. For he, from 

time to time. 
Was plagued with that same fate to 

prophesy. 
And spake against himself, against his 

day 
And time, in words that all men did 

abhor. 
Therefore, he, warning them what time 

the fit 
Came on him, saved them, that they 

heard it not. 
So while they fled, he cried : " I saw 

the God 
Reach out of heaven His wonderful 

right hand. 
Lo, lol He dipped it in the unquiet 

sea, 
And in its curved palm behold the ark, 
As in a vast calm lake, came floating 

on. 
Ay, then, His other hand — the cursing 

hand — 
He took and spread between us and the 

sun. 
And all was black ; the day was blotted 

out. 
And horrible staggering took the 

frighted earth. 
I heard the water hiss, and then me- 

thinks 
The crack as of her splitting. Did 

she take 
Their palaces that are my brothers 

dear, 



And huddle them with all their an- 
cientry 
Under into her breast ? If it was black, 
How could this old man see? There 

was a noise 
I' the dark, and He drew back His 

hand again. 
I looked It was a dream, — let 

no man say 
It was aught else. There, so — the fit 

goes by. 
Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide ? — 
Sooner than that, saith old Methu- 
selah, 
Let the vulture lay his beak to my 

green limbs. 
What! art Thou envious? — are the 

sons of men 
Too wise to please Thee, and to do Thy 

will? 
Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground, 
Clad in his gown of age, the pale white 

gown. 
And goeth not forth to war; his 

wrinkled hands 
He claspeth round his knees : old, 

very old. 
Would he could steal from Thee one 

secret more — 
The secret of Thy youth ! O, envious 

God! 
We die. The words of old Methuselah 
And his prophecy are ended." 



Then the wives, 
Beholding how he trembled, and the 

maids 
And children, came anear, saying, 

"Who art thou 
That standest gazing on the Elder? Lo, 
Thou dost not well : withdraw ; for it 

was thou 
Whose stranger presence troubled him, 

and brought 
The fit of prophecy." And he did 

turn 
To look upon them, and their majestjr 
And glorious beauty took away his 

words ; 
And, being pure among the vile, he 

cast 
In his thought a veil of snow-white 

purity 



148 



A STORV OF DOOM. 



Over the beauteous throng. "Thou 

dost not well," 
They said. He answered : " Blossoms 

o' the world, 
Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade, 
Where in the youngest grass blue cups 

push forth. 
And the white lily reareth up her head, 
And purples cluster, and the saffron 

flower. 
Clear as a flame of sacrifice, breaks out, 
And every cedar-bough, made delicate 
With climbing roses, drops in white 

and red, — 
Saw I (good angels keep you in their 

care) 
So beautiful a crowd." 



_ With that they stamped, 
Gnashed their white teeth, and, turn- 
ing, fled and spat 
Upon the floor. The Elder spake to 

him. 
Yet shaking with the burden, "Who 

art thou?" 
He answered : " I, the man whom thou 

didst send 
To fetch through this thy woodland, do 

forbear 
To tell my name ; thou lovest it not, 

great sire, — 
No, nor mine errand. To thy house 

I spake. 
Touching their beauty." " Wherefore 

didst thou spite," 
Quoth he, "the daughters?" and it 

seemed he lost 
Count of that prophecy, for very age, 
And from his thin lips dropt a trembling 

laugh. 
"Wicked old man," quoth he, "this 

wise old man 
I see as 'twere not I. Thou bad old 

man, 
What shall be done to thee ? for thou 

didst burn 
Their babes, and strew the ashes all 

about. 
To rid the world of His white soldiers. 

.Ay, 

Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. 
Cowards ! I heard them winnow their 
great wings : 



They went to tell Him ; but they came 

no more. 
The women hate to hear of them, so 

sore 
They grudged their little ones ; and 

yet no way 
There was but that. I took it ; I did 

well." 

With that he fell to weeping. " Son," 
said he, 

"Long have I hid mine eyes from stal- 
wart men. 

For it is hard to lose the majesty 

And pride and power of manhood : but 
to-day. 

Stand forth into the light, that I may 
look 

Upon thy strength, and think, Even 
thus did i, 

In the glory of my youth, morb 
LIKE to God 

Than like His soldiers, face thh 

VASSAL world." 

Then Noah stood fonvard in his maj- 
esty. 

Shouldering the golden billhook, where- 
withal 

He wont to cut his way, when tangled 
in 

The matted hayes. And down the 
opened roof 

Fell slanting beams upon his stately 
head. 

And streamed along his gown, and 
made to shine 

The jewelled sandals on his feet. 

And, lo, 
The Elder cried aloud: "I prophesy. 
Behold, my son is as a fruitful field 
When all the lands are waste. The 

archers drew, — 
They drew the bow against him ; they 

were fain 
To slay : but he shall live, — my son 

shall live. 
And I shall live by him in the other 

days. 
Behold the prophet of the Most High 

God: 
Hear him. Behold the hope o' the 

world, what time 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



149 



She lieth under. Hear him ; he shall 

save 
A seed alive, and sow the earth with 

man. 
O earth ! earth ! earth ! a floating shell 

of wood 
Shall hold the remnant of thy mighty 

lords. 
Will this old man be in it ? Sir, and 

you, 
My daughters, hear him! Lo, this 

white old man 
He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let 

be: 
Why dost Thou trouble us to make our 

tongue 
Ring with abhorred words?) The pro- 
phecy 
Of the Elder, and the vision that he 

saw. 
They both are ended." 

Then said Noah : " The life 
Of this my lord is low for very age : 
Why, then, with bitter words upon thy 

tongue. 
Father of Lamech, dost thou anger 

Him? 
Thou canst not strive against Him 

now." He said: 
" Thy feet are toward the valley, where 

lie bones 
Bleaching upon the desert. Did I love 
The lithe strong lizards that I yoked 

and set 
To draw my car? and were they not 

possessed? 
Yea, all of them were liars. I loved 

them well. 
What did the Enemy, but on a day 
When I behind my talking team went 

forth. 
They sweetly lying, so that all men 

praised 
Their flattering tongues and mild per- 
suasive eyes, — 
What did the Enemy but send His 

slaves, 
Angels, to cast down stones upon their 

heads 
And break them? Nay, I could not 

stir abroad 
But havoc came ; they never crept or 

flew 



Beyond the shelter that I builded 

here, 
But straight the crowns I had set upon 

their heads 
Were marks for myrmidons that in the 

clouds 
Kept watch to crush them. Can a man 

forgive 
That hath been warred on thus? I will 

not. Nay, 
I swear it, — I, the man Methuselah." 
The Master-shipwright, he replied, 

'"Tis true. 
Great loss was that ; but they that stood 

thy friends. 
The wicked spirits, spoke upon their 

tongues, 
And cursed the God of heaven. What 

marvel, sir, 
If He was angered?" But the Elder 

cried : 
"They all are dead, — the toward 

beasts I loved ; 
My goodly team, my joy, they all are 

dead ; 
Their bones lie bleaching in the wilder^ 

ness: 
And I will keep my wrath for ever- 
more 
Against the Enemy that slew them. Go, 
Thou coward servant of a tyrant King, 
Go down the desert of the bones, and 

ask, 
' My King, what bones are these ? Me- 
thuselah, 
The white old man that sitteth on the 

ground, 
Sendeth a message, " Bid them that 

they live. 
And let my lizards run up every path 
They wont to take when out of silver 

pipes, 
The pipes that Tubal wrought into my 

roof, 
I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's 

throat 
Hath ever formed ; and while they laid 

their heads 
Submiss upon my threshold, poured 

away 
Music that welled by heartsful out, and 

made 
The throats of men that heard to swell, 

their breasts 



ISO 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



To heave with the joy of grief ; yea, 

caused the lips 
To laugh of men asleep. 

Return to me 

The great wise lizards ; ay, and them 

that flew 
My pursuivants before me. Let me 

yoke 
Again that multitude; and here I 

swear 
That they shall draw my car and me 

thereon 
Straight to the ship of doom. So men 

shall know 
My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou 
Shalt yet have honor, O mine Enemy, 
By me. The speech of old IMethuse- 

lah." ' " 

Then Noah made answer, " By the 

living God, 
That is no enemy to men, great sire, 
I will not take thy message ; hear thou 

Him. 
' Behold (He saith that suffereth thee), 

behold. 
The earth that I made green cries out 

to Me, 
Red with the costly blood of beauteous 

man. 
I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith) ; 

they sacrifice 
To evil demons of My blameless flocks. 
That I did fashion with My hand. 

Behold, 
How goodly was the world ! I gave it 

thee 
Fresh from its finishing. What hast 

thou done ? 
I will cry out to the waters, Cozier it, 
And hide it from its Father. Lo, 

Mine eyes 
Turn/rom it shamed.'' " 

With that the old man laughed 

Full softly. "Ay," quoth he, "a 
goodly wond, 

And we have done with it as we did 
list. 

Why did he give it us? Nay, look 
you, son : 

Five score they were that died in yon- 
der waste ; 



And if He crieth, * Repent, be recon- 
ciled,' 

I answer, ' Nay, my lizards ; ' and 
again. 

If He will trouble me in this mine age, 

' Why hast Thou slain my lizards ? ' 
Now my speech 

Is cut away from all my other words. 

Standing alone. The Elder sweareth 
h', 

The man of many days, Methuselah." 

Then answered Noah, " My Master, 

hear it not ; 
But yet have patience ; " and he turned 

himself, 
And down betwi.xt the ordered trees 

went forth. 
And in the light of evening made his 

way 
Into the waste to meet the Voice of 

God. J 



Above the head of great Methuselah 
There lay two demons in the opened 

roof 
Invisible, and gathered up his words ; 
For wiien the Elder prophesied, it 

came 
About, that hidden things were shown 

to them. 
And burdens that he spake against his 

time. 

(But never heard them, such as dwelt 

with him ; 
Their ears they stopped, and willed to 

live at ease 
In all delight; and perfect in their 

youth, 
And strong, disport them in the perfect 

world.) 

Now these were fettered that they 

could not fly, 
For a certain disobedience they had 

wrought 
Against the ruler of their host ; but not 
The less they loved their cause ; and 

when the feet 
O' the Master-builder were no longer 

heard, 



A SrORV OF DOOM. 



'5* 



They, slipping to the sward, right pain- 
fully 

Did follow, for the one to the other 
said, 

" Behooves our master know of this ; 
and us, 

Should he be favorable, he may loose 

From these our bonds.' ' 

And thus it came to pass. 

That vi'hile at dead of night the old 
dragon lay 

Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, 
the watch 

Pacing before it saw in middle air 

A boat, that gleamed like fire, and on 
it came. 

And rocked as it drew near, and then 
it burst 

And went to pieces, and there fell there- 
from, 

Close at the cavern's mouth, two glow- 
ing balls. 

Now there was drawn a curtain nigh 

the mouth 
Of that deep cave, to testify of wrath. 
The dragon had been wroth with some 

that served. 
And chased them from him ; and his 

oracles, 
That worit to drop from him, were 

stopped, and men 
Might only pray to him through that 

fell web 
That hung before him. Then did 

whisper low 
Some of the little spirits that, bat-like, 

clung 
And cluster'd round the opening. 

" Lo," they said. 
While gazed the watch upon those 

glowing balls, 
** These are like moons eclipsed ; but 

let them lie 
Red on the moss, and sear its dewy 

spires, 
Until our lord give leave to draw the 

web, 
And quicken reverence by his presence 

dread, 
For he will know and call to them by 



And they will change. At present he 

is sick. 
And wills that none disturb him." So 

they lay. 
And there was silence, for the forest 

tribes 
Came never near that cave. Wiser 

than men. 
They fled the serpent hiss that oft by 

night 
Came forth of it, and feared the wan 

dusk forms 
That stalked among the trees, and in 

the dark 
Those whiffs of flame that wandered up 

the sky 
And made the moonlight sickly. 



Now, the cave 
Was marvellous for beauty, wrought 

with tools 
Into the living rock, for there had 

worked 
All cunning men, to cut on it with signs 
And shows, yea, all the manner of man- 
kind. 
The fateful apple-tree was there, a 

bough 
Bent with the weight of him that us 

beguiled ; 
And lilies of the field did seem to blow 
And bud in the storied stone. There 

Tubal sat. 
Who from his harp delivered music, 

sweet 
As any in the spheres. Yea, more ; 
Earth's latest wonder on the walls ap- 
peared. 
Unfinished, workmen clustering on its 

ribs ; 
And farther back, within the rock 

hewn out. 
Angelic figures stood, that impious 

hands 
Had fashioned; many golden lamps 

they held 
By golden chains depending, and their 

eyes 
All tended in a reverent quietude 
Toward the couch whereon the dragon 

lay. 
The floor was beaten gold ; the curly 

lengths 



152 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Of his last coils lay on it, hid from 

sight 

With a coverlet made stiff with crust- 
ing gems, 

Fire-opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright 
eyes 

Of diamonds, or the pale green emer- 
ald, 

Thar changed their lustre when he 
breathed. 

His head. 

Feathered with crimson combs, and all 
his neck. 

And half-shut fans of his admired 
wings. 

That in their scaly splendor put to 
shame 

Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch 

And shivered ; for the dragon suffered 
pain : 

He suffered and he feared. It was his 
doom. 

The tempter, that he never should de- 
part 

From the bright creature that in. Para- 
dise 

He for his evil purpose erst possessed, 

Until it died. Thus only, spirit of 
might 

And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be 
free. 

But with its nature wed, as souls of 

men 
Are wedded to their clay, he took the 

dread 
Of death and dying, and the coward 

heart 
Of the beast, and craven terrors of the 

end 
Sank him that habited within it to 

dread 
Disunion. He, a dark dominion erst 
Rebellious, lay and trembled, for the 

flesh 
Daunted his immaterial. He was sick 
And sorry. Great ones of the earth 

had sent 
Their chief musicians for to comfort 

him, 
Chanting his praise, the friend of man, 

the god 
That gave them knowledge, at so great 

a price 



And costly. Yea, the riches of the 

mine, 
And glorious broidered work, and woven 

gold. 
And all things wisely made, they at his 

feet 
Laid daily; for they said, "This 

mighty one, 
All the world wonders after him. He 

lieth 
Sick in his dwelling ; he hath long fore- 
gone 
(To do us good) dominion, and a throne, 
And his brave warfare with the Enemy, 
So much he pitieth us that were denied 
The gain and gladness of this knowl- 
edge. Now 
Shall he be certified of gratitude, 
And smell the sacrifice that most he 
loves." 

The night was dark, but every lamp 

gave forth 
A tender, lustrous beam. His beau- 
teous wings 
The dragon fluttered, cursed awhile, 

then turned 
And moaned with lamentable voice, " I 

thirst. 
Give me to drink." Thereon steppet? 

out in haste, 
From inner chambers, lovely minis' 

trants. 
Young boys, with radiant locks and 

peaceful eyes, 
And poured out liquor from their cups 

to cool 
His parched tongue, and kneeling held 

it nigh 
In jewelled basins sparkling ; and he 

lapped. 
And was appeased, and said, " I will 

not hide 
Longer my much-desired face from 

men. 
Draw back the web of separation." 

Then 
With cries of gratulation ran they forth, 
And flung it wide, and all the watch fell 

low, 
Each on his face, as drunk with sudden 

joy. 
Thus marked he, glowing on the 

branched moss, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



IS3 



Those red rare moons, and let his ser- 
pent eyes 
Consider them full subtly, " What be 

these?" 
' Inquiring : and the httle spirits said, 
"As we for thy protection (having 

heard 
That wrathful sons of darkness walk 

to-night, 
Such as do oft ill-use us) clustered here, 
We marked a boat afire, that sailed the 

skies. 
And furrowed up like spray a billowy 

cloud, 
And, lo, it went to pieces, scattering 

down 
A rain of sparks and these two angry 

moons." 
Then said the dragon, *' Let my guard, 

and you. 
Attendant hosts, recede;" and they 

went back. 
And formed about the cave a widen- 
ing ring, 
Then, halting, stood afar; and from 

the cave 
The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing 

tongue, 
" If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Be Tartis and Deleisonon. once more." 

Then egg-like cracked the glowing 
balls, and forth 

Started black angels, trampling hard to 
free 

Their fettered feet from out the smok- 
ing shell. 

And he said, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Your lord I am: draw nigh." "Thou 

art our lord," 
They answered, and with fettered limbs 

full low 
They bent, and made obeisance. Fur- 
thermore, 
"O fiery flying serpent, after whom 
The nations go, let thy dominion last," 
They said, "forever." And the ser- 
pent said, 
"It shall: unfold your errand." They 

replied. 
One speaking for a space, and after- 
ward 



His fellow taking up the word with 

fear, 
And panting, " We were set to watch 

the mouth 
Of great Methuselah. There came to 

him 
The son of Lamech two days since." 

"My lord, 
They prophesied, the Elder prophesied, 
Unwitting, of the flood of waters, — ay, 
A vision was before him, and the lands 
Lay under water drowned. He saw 

the ark, — 
It floated in the Enemy's right hand." 
"Lord of the lost, the son of Lamech 

fled 
Into the wilderness to meet His voice 
That reigneth ; and -we, diligent to hear 
Aught that might serve thee, followed, 

but, forbid 
To enter, lay upon its boundary cliff, 
And wished for morning." 

"When the dawn was red 
We sought the man, we marked him ; 

and he prayed, — 
Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and 

he said — " 
" Nay," quoth the serpent, "spare me, 

what devout 
He fawning grovelled to the All-power- 
ful ; 
But if of what shall hap he aught let fall, 
Speak that." They answered, " He 

did pray as one 
That looketh to outlive mankind, — 

and more, 
We are certified by all his scattered 

words, 
That He will take from men their 

length of days, 
And cut them off like grass in its first 

flower : 
From henceforth this shall be." 

That when he heard, 
The dragon made to the night his 
moan. 

"And more," 
They said, " that He above would have 

men know 
That He doth love them, whoso will 
repent, 



IS4 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



To that man He is favorable, yea, 
Will be his loving Lord." 

The dragon cried, 
" The last is worse than all. O man, 

thy heart 
Is stout against His wrath. But will 

He love ? 
I heard it rumored in the heavens of 

old 
(And doth He love ?). Thou wilt not, 

canst not, stand 
Against the love of God. Dominion 

fails ; 
I see it float from me, that long have 

worn 
Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of 

God I 
I cry against thee ; thou art worse than 

all." 
They answered, *' Be not moved, ad- 
mired chief 
And trusted of mankind ; ' ' and they 

went on, 
And fed him with the prophecies that 

fell 
From the Master-shipwright in his 

prayer. 

But prone 
He lay, for he was sick : at every word 
Prophetic cowering. As a bruising 

blow. 
It fell upon his head and daunted him. 
Until they ended, saying, " Prince, be- 
hold, 
Thy servants have revealed the whole." 

Thereon 
He out of snaky lips did hiss forth 

thanks. 
Then said he, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Receive your wages." So their fetters 

fell ; 
And they, retiring, lauded him, and 

cried, 
"King, reign forever." Then he 

mourned, "Amen." 

And he , — being left alone, — he said : 

" A light ! 
I see a light, — a star among the trees, — 
An angel." And it drew toward the 

cave. 



But with its sacred feet touched not, 
the grass, | 

Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes, I 

But hung a span's length from that' 
ground pollute, 

At the opening of the cave. 

And when he looked, 
The dragon cried, " Thou newly- 
fashioned thing, 
Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes 

thee not. 
Doth not thy Master suffer what thine 

eyes 
Thou countest all too clean to open 

on?" 
But still it hovered, and the quietness 
Of holy heaven was on the drooping 

lids; 
And not as one that answereth, it let 

fall 
The music from its mouth, but like to 

one 
That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth' 

not heed. 

" A message : * I have heard thee, 

while remote 
I went My rounds among the unfinished 

stars.' 
A message: 'I have left thee to thy 

ways, 
And mastered all thy vileness, for thy 

hate 
I have made to serve the ends of My 

great love. 
Hereafter will I chain thee do\\Ti. To- 
day 
One thing thou art forbidden ; now 

thou knowest 
The name thereof: I told it thee in 

heaven. 
When thou wert sitting at My feet. 

Forbear 
To let that hidden thing be whispered 

forth : 
For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it 

was, 
That so ungrateful he might prove), 

would scorn. 
And not believe it, adding , so fresh 

weight 
Of condemnation to the doomed world. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



I5S 



Concerning that, thou art forbid to 

speak ; 
Know thou didst count it, falling from 

My tongue, 
A lovely song, whose meaning was 

unknown, 
Unknowable, unbearable to thought. 
But sweeter in the hearing than all 

harps 
Toned in My holy hollow. Now 

thine ears 
Are opened, know it, and discern and 

fear, 
Forbearing speech of it for evermore." 

So said, it turned, and with a cry of 

joy, 
As one released, went up : and it was 

dawn, 
And all boughs dropped with dew, and 

'out of mist 
Came the red sun and looked into the 

cave. 

But the dragon, left a-tremble, called 

to him, 
From the nether kingdom, certain of 

his friends, — 
Three whom he trusted, councillors 

accursed. 
A thunder-cloud stooped low and 

swathed the place 
In its black swirls, and out of it they 

rushed. 
And hid them in recesses of the cave, 
Because they could not look upon the 

sun, 
Sith light is pure. And Satan called 

to them, — 
All in the dark, in his great rage he 

spake : 
"Up," quoth the dragon; "it is time 

to work, 
Or we are all undone." And he did 

hiss, 
And there came shudderings over land 

and trees, 
A dimness after dawn. The earth 

threw out 
A blinding fog, that crept toward the 

cave, 
And rolled up blank before it like a 

veil, — 



A curtain to conceal its habiters. 
Then did those spirits move upon the 

floor, 
Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes 

aglow. 
One had a helm for covering of the 

scars 
That seamed what rested of a goodly 

face ; 
He wore his vizor up, and all his words 
Were hollovver than an echo from the 

hills: 
He was hight Make. And lo, his fel- 
low-fiend 
Came after, holding down his dastard 

head. 
Like one ashamed : now this for craft 

was great ; 
The dragon honored him. A third sat 

down 
Among them, covering with his wasted 

hand 
Somewhat that pained his breast. 

And when the fit 
Of thunder, and the sobbings of the 

wind. 
Were lulled, the dragon spoke with 

wrath and rage. 
And told them of his matters: "Look 

to this. 
If ye be loyal;" adding, "Give your 

thoughts, 
And let me have your counsel in this 

need." 

One spirit rose and spake, and all the 

cave 
Was full of sighs, " The words of 

Make the Prince, 
Of him once delegate in Betelgeux : 
Whereas of late the manner is to 

change, 
We know not where 'twill end; and 

now my words 
Go thus : give way, be peaceable, lie 

still 
And strive not, else the world that we 

have won 
He may, to drive us out, reduce to 

naught. 

" For while I stood in mine obedience 
yet, 



156 



A STORY OF DOO-M. 



Steering of Betelgeux my sun, behold, 
A moon, that evil ones did fill, rolled 

up 
Astray, and suddenly the Master came, 
And while, a million strong, like rooks 

they rose. 
He took and broke it, flung it here and 

there. 
And called a blast to drive the powder 

forth -, , , , , 

And it was fine as dust, and blurred 

the skies 
Farther than 'tis from hence to this 

young sun. 
Spirits that passed upon their work that 

day. 
Cried out, " How dusty 'tis." Be- 
hooves us, then, 
That we depart, as leaving unto Him 
This goodly world and goodly race of 

man. 
Not all are doomed : hereafter it may 

be 
That we find place on it again. But if. 
Too zealous to preserve it, and the 

men 
Our servants, we oppose Him, He may 

come. 
And, choosing rather to undo His work 
Than strive with it for aye, make so an 

end." 
He sighing paused. Lo, then the ser- 
pent hissed 
In impotent rage, "Depart! and how 

depart ! 
Can flesh be carried down where spirits 

wonn ? 
Or I, most miserable, hold my hfe 
Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and 

bide 
The buffetings of yonder shoreless sea? 
O death, thou terrible doom : O death, 

thou dread 
Of all that breathe." 

*■ _ A spirit rose and spake : 
** Whereas in Heaven is power, is much 

to fear ; 
For this admired country we have 

marred. 
Whereas in Heaven is love (and there 

are days 
When vet I can recall what love was 

like), 



Is naught to fear. A threatening makes ^ 

the whole, | 

And clogged with strong conditions: I 

' O, repent, » 

Man, and 1 turn.' He, therefore, 

powerful now, 
And more so, master, that ye bide in 

clay, 
Threateneth that He may save. They 

shall not die." 

The dragon said, " I tremble, I am 

sick." 
He said with pain of heart, " How am 

I fallen ! 
For I keep silence ; yea, I have with- 
drawn 
From haunting of His gates, and shout- 
ing up 
Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me 

out 
From this small world, this little one, 

that I 
Have been content to take unto myself, 
I here being loved and worshipped? 

He knoweth 
How much 1 have foregone ; and must 

He stoop 
To whelm the world, and heave the 

floors o' the deep. 
Of purpose to pursue me from my 

place ? 
And since I gave men knowledge, must 

He take 
Their length of days whereby they per* 

fecfit? 
So shall He scatter all that I have 

stored. 
And get them by degrading them. I 

know 
That in the end it is appointed me 
To fade. I will not fade before the 

time." 

A spirit rose, the third, a spirit 
ashamed 

And subtle, and his face he turned ^ 
aside : 

"Whereas," said he, "we strive 
against both power 

And love, behooves us that we strive 
aright. 

Now some of old my comrades yester- 
day 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



157 



I met, as they did journey to appear 
In the Presence; and I said, 'My 

master lieth 
Sick yonder, otlierwise (for no decree 
There stands against it) he 'would also 

come 
And make obeisance with the sons of 

God.' 
They answered, naught denying. 

Therefore, lord, 
'T is certain that ye have admittance 

yet ; 
And what doth hinder? Nothing but 

this breath. 
Were it not well to make an end, and 

die. 
And gain admittance to the King of 

■kings ? 
What if thy slaves by thy consent 

shT)uld take 
And bear thee on their wings above 

the earth, 
And suddenly let fall, — how soon 

't were o'er! 
We should have fear and sinking at the 

heart ; 
But in a little moment we should see, 
Rising majestic from a ruined heap, 
The stately spirit that we served of 

yore." 

The serpent turned his subtle deadly 
eyes 

Upon the spirit, and hissed ; and, sick 
with shame, 

It bowed itself together, and went back 

With hidden face. "This counsel is 
not good," 

The other twain made answer ; " look, 
my lord, 

Whereas 'tis evil in thine eyes, in 
ours 

'Tis evil also ; speak, for we perceive 

That on thy tongue the words of coun- 
sel sit, 

Ready to fly to our right greedy ears, 

That long for them." And Satan, flat- 
tered thus 

(For ever may the serpent kind be 
charmed 

With soft, sweet words, and music 
deftly played). 

Replied, " Whereas I surely rule the 
world, 



Behooves that ye prepare for me a 

path, 
And that I, putting of my pains 

aside. 
Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts 
O' the giants ; for He lovelh them, and 

looks 
Full oft complacent on their glorious 

strength. 
He wilieth that they yield, that He 

may spare ; 
But, by the blackness of my loathed 

den, 
I say they shall not, no, they shall not 

yield ; 
Go, therefore, take to you some harm- 
less guise. 
And spread a rumor that I come. I, 

sick, 
Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard 
Whispers that out of heaven dropped 

unaware. 
I caught them up, and sith they bode 

men harm, 
I am ready for to comfort them ; yea, 

more. 
To counsel, and I will that they drive 

forth 
The women, the abhorred of my soul ; 
Let not a woman breathe where I shall 

pass. 
Lest the curse falleth, and she bruise 

my head. 
Friends, if it be their mind to send for 

me 
An army, and triumphant draw me on 
In the golden car you wot of, and with 

shouts, 
I would not that ye hinder them. Ah, 

then 
Will I make hard their hearts, and 

grieve Him sore 
That loves them, O, by much too well 

to wet 
Their stately heads, and soil those 

locks of strength 
Under the fateful brine. Then after- 
ward. 
While He doth reason vainly with 

them, I 
Will offer Him a pact : ' Great King, a 

pact. 
And men shall worship Thee, I say 

they shall, 



158 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



For I will bid them do it, yea, and 

leave 
To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my 

name 
Wilt suffer to be worshipped after 

Thine.' " 

"Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, 

"do this thing, 
And let us hear thy words, for they are 

sweet." 

Then he made answer, "By a mes- 
senger 
Have I this day been warned. There 

is a deed 
I may not tell of, lest the people add 
Scorn of a Coming Greatness to their 

faults. 
Why this? Who careth, when about 

to slay, 
And slay indeed, how well they have 

deserved 
Death whom he slayeth? Therefore 

yet is hid 
A meaning of some mercy that will rob 
The nether world. Now look to it, — 

'Twere vain, 
Albeit this deluge He would send in- 
deed. 
That we expect the harvest; He 

would yet 
Be the Master-reaper; for I heard it 

said, 
Them that be young and know Him 

not, and them 
That are bound and may not build, yea, 

more, their wives, 
Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, 

they keep 
Joyous behind the curtains, every one 
With maidens nourished in the house, 

and babes 
And children at her knees — (then what 

remain!) 
He claimeth and will gather for His 

own. 
Now, therefore, it were good by guile 

to work, 
Princes, and suffer not the doom to 

fall. 
There is no evil like to love. I heard 
Him whisper it. Have I put on this 

flesh 



To ruin His two children beautiful, 
And shall my deed confound me in the 

end. 
Through awful imitation? Love of 

God, 
I cry against thee ; thou art worst of 

all." 



Now while these evil ones took coun- 
sel strange, 
The son of Lamech journeyed home; 

and, lo! 
A company came do\vn, and struck the 

track 
As he did enter it. There rode in 

front 
Two horsemen, young and noble, and 

behind 
Were following slaves with tent gear ? 

others led 
Strong horses, others bare the instru< 

ments 
O' the chase, and in the rear dull 

camels lagged, 
Sighing, for they were burdened, and 

they loved 
The desert sands above that grassy 

vale. 

And as they met, those horsemen drew 
the rein, 

And fixed on him their grave un- 
troubled eyes ; 

He in his regal grandeur walked alone. 

And had nor steed nor follower, and 
his mien 

Was grave and like to theirs. He 
said to them, 

"Fair sirs, whose are ye?" They 
made answer cold, 

' ' The beautiful woman, sir, our mother 
dear, 

Niloiya, bare us to great Lamech's 
son." 

And he, replying, "I am he." They 
said, 

" We know it, sir. We have remem- 
bered you 

Through many seasons. Pray you let 
us not ; 

We fain would greet our mother. ' 
And they made 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



fS9 



Obeisance and passed on; then all 

their train, 
Which while they spoke had halted, 

moved apace, 
And, while the silent father stood, 

went by. 
He gazing after, as a man that dreams ; 
For he was sick with their cold, quiet 

scorn, 
That seemed to say, " Father, we own 

you not, 
We love you not, for you have left us 

long, — 
So long, we care not that you come 

again." 



And while the sullen camels moved, he 

sp'ke 
To him that led the last, " There are 

but two 
Of these my sons; but where doth 

Japhet ride? 
For I would see him." And the leader 

said, 
" Sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up 
Along the track. Afore the noonday 

meal 
The young men, even our masters, 

bathed ; (there grows 
A clump of cedars by the bend of yon 
Clear river) — there did Japhet, after 

meat, 
Being right weary, lay him down and 

sleep. 
There, with a company of slaves and 

some 
Few camels, ye shall find him." 



And the man. 
The father of these three, did let him 

pass. 
And struggle and give battle to his 

heart. 
Standing as motionless as pillar set 
To guide a wanderer in a pathless 

waste ; 
But all his strength went from him, and 

he strove 
Vainly to trample out and trample 

down 
The misery of his love unsatisfied, — 
Unutterable love flung in his face. 



Then he broke out in passionate words, 

that cried 
Against his lot : "I have lost my own, 

and won 
None other; no,. not one! Alas, my 

sons! 
That I have looked to for my solacing, 
In the bitterness to come. My children 

dear! " 
And when from his own lips he heard 

those words. 
With passionate stirring of the heart, 

he wept. 



And none came near to comfort him. 

His face 
Was on the ground ; but having wept, 

he rose 
Full hastily, and urged his way to find 
The river ; and in hollow of his hand 
Raised up the water to his brow: 

" This son. 
This other son of mine," he said, 

" shall see 
No tears upon my face." And he 

looked on, 
Behe'-d the camels, and a group of slaves 
Sitting apart from some one fast asleep, 
Where they had spread out webs of 

broidery work 
Under a cedar-tree , and he came on. 
And when they made obeisance he de- 
clared [son 
His name, and said, " I will beside my 
Sit till he wakeneth." So Japhet lay 
A-dreaming, and his father drew to 

him. 
He said, " This cannot scorn me yet ; " 

and paused, 
Right angry with himself, because the 

youth, 
Albeit of stately growth, so languidly 
Lay with a listless smile upon his 

mouth, 
That was full sweet and pure ; and as 

he looked. 
He half forgot his trouble in his pride. 
"And is this mine?" said he, "my 

son ! mine own ! 
(God, thou art good!) O, if this turn 

away, 
That pang shall be past bearing. I 

must think 



i6o 



A STORY OF doom: 



That all the sweetness of his goodly 
face 

Is copied from his soul. How beauti- 
ful 

Are children to their fathers ! Son, my 
heart 

Is greatly glad because of thee ; my 
life 

Shall lack of no completeness in the 
days 

To come If I forget the joy of youth, 

In thee shall I be comforted ; ay, see 

My youth, a dearer than my own 
again." 

And when he ceased, the youth, with 

sleep content, 
Murmured a little, turned himself, and 

woke. 

He woke, and opened on his father's 

face 
The darkness of his eyes ; but not a 

word 
The Master-shipwright said, — his lips 

were sealed ; 
He was not ready, for he feared to see 
This mouth curl up with scorn. And 

Japhet spoke. 
Full of the calm that cometh after 

sleep : 
" Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray 

you, sir. 
What is your name?" and even with 

his words 
His countenance changed. The son of 

Lamech said, 
"Why art thou sad? What have I 

done to thee?" 
And Japhet answered, "O, methought 

I fled 
In the wilderness before a maddened 

beast, 
And you came up and slew it ; and 

I thought 
You were my father; but I fear me, 

sir, 
My thoughts were vain." With that 

• his father said, 
"Whate'er of blessing Thou reserv'st 

for me, 
God! if Thou wilt not give to both, 

give here: 



Bless him with both Thy hands ; " and 

laid his own 
On Japhet' s head. 

Then Japhet looked on him, 

Made quiet by content, and answered 
low, 

With faltering laughter, glad and rev- 
erent: "Sir, 

You are my father?" "Ay," quoth 
he, ''I am! 

Kiss me, my son ; and let me hear my 
name. 

My much desired name, from your 
dear lips." 



Then after, rested, they betook them 

home : 
And Japhet, walking by the Master, 

thought, 
" I did not will to love this sire of 

mine ; 
But now I feel as if I had always known 
And loved him well ; truly, I see not 

why. 
But I would rather serve him than go 

free 
With my two brethren." And he said 

to him, 
"Father!" — who answered, "I am 

here, my son." 
And Japhet said, " I pray you, sir, at- 
tend 
To this my answer: let me go with 

you. 
For, now I think on it, I do not love 
The chase, nor managing the steed, 

nor yet 
The arrows and the bow; but rather 

you. 
For all you do and say, and you your- 
self, 
Are goodly and delightsome in mine 

eyes. 
I pray you, sir, when you go forth 

again. 
That I may also go." And he replied, 
" I will tell thy speech unto the 

Highest; He 
Shall answer it. But I would speak to 

thee 
Now of the days to come. Know thou, 

most dear 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



i6i 



To this thy father, that the drenched 

world, 
When risen clean washed from water, 

shall receive 
From thee her lordliest governors, from 

thee 
Daughters of noblest soul." 

So Japhet said, 
" Sir, I am young, but of my mother 

straight 
I will go ask a wife, -that this may be. 
I pray you, therefore, as the man- 
ner is 
Of fathers, give me land that I may 

reap 
Corn for sustaining of my wife, and 

bruise 
The fruit of the vine to cheer her." 

But he said, 
"Dost thou forget? or dost thou not 

believe, 
Myson?" He answered, " I did ne'er 

believe. 
My father, ere to-day ; but now, me- 

thinks. 
Whatever thou believest I believe, 
For thy beloved sake. If this then be 
As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth 

doth bear 
The last of her wheat harvests, and 

make ripe 
The latest of her grapes ; yet hear me, 

sir, 
None of the daughters shall be given to 

me 
If I be landless." Then his father 

said, 
" Lift up thine eyes toward the north, 

my son : " 
And so he did. "Behold thy heri- 
tage !" 
Quoth the world's prince and master, 

" far away 
Upon the side o' the north, where 

green the field 
Lies every season through, and where 

the dews 
Of heaven are wholesome, shall thy 

children reign ; 
I part It to them, for the earth is mine ; 
The Highest gave it me : I make it 

theirs. 
Moreover, for thy marriage gift, behold 



The cedars where thou sleepedst! 

There are vines ; 
And up the rise is growing wheat. I 

give 
(For all, alas! is mine), — I give thee 

both 
For dowry, and my blessing. " 



And he said, 
" Sir, you are good, and therefore the 

Most High 
Shall bless me also. Sir, I love you 

well." 



BOOK V. 

And when two days were over, Japhet 

said, 
" Mother, so please you, get a wife for 

me." 
The mother answered, " Dost thou 

mock me, son? 
'T is not the manner of our kin to wed 
So young. Thou knowest it ; art thou 

not ashamed ? 
Thou carest not for a wife." And the 

youth blushed. 
And made for answer : " This, my 

father, saith 
The doom is nigh ; now, therefore, find 

a maid. 
Or else shall I be wifeless all my days. 
And as for me, I care not; but the 

lands 
Are parted, and the goodliest share is 

mine. 
And lo! my brethren are betrothed; 

their maids 
Are with thee in the house. Then why 

not mine ? 
Didst thou not diligently search for 

these 
Among the noblest born of all the 

earth. 
And bring them up ? My sisters, dwell 

they not 
With women that bespake them for 

their sons? 
Now, therefore, let a wife be found for 

me. 
Fair as the day, and gentle to my will 
As thou art to my father's." When 

she heard, 



l62 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Niloiya sighed, and answered, "It is 

well." 
And Japhet went out from her presence. 

Then 
Quoth the great Master : *' Wherefore 

sought ye not. 
Woman, these many days, nor tired at 

all. 
Till ye had found, a maiden for my 

son? 
In this ye have done ill." Niloiya 

said: 
" Let not my lord be angry. All my 

soul 
Is sad : my lord hath walked afar so 

long, 
That some despise thee ; yea, our ser- 
vants fail 
Lately to bring their stint of corn and 

wood. 
And, sir, thy household slaves do steal 

away 
To thy great father, and our lands lie 

waste, — 
None till them: therefore think the 

women scorn 
To give me — whatsoever gems I send. 
And goodly raiment (yea, I seek afar, ■ 
And sue with all desire and humbleness 
Through every master's house, but no 

one gives) — 
A daughter for my son." With that 

she ceased. , 

Then said the Master: "Some thou 

hast with thee, 
Brought up among thy children, duti- 
ful 
And fair ; thy father gave them for my 

slaves, — 
Children of them whom he brought 

captive forth 
From their own heritage." And she 

replied, 
Right scornfully : " Shall Japhet wed 

a slave?" 
Then said the Master: "He shall 

wed : look thou 
To that. I say not he shall wed a 

slave ; 
But, by the might of One that made 

him mine, 



I will not quit thee for my doomed 
way 

Until thou wilt betroth him. There- 
fore, haste. 

Beautiful woman, loved of me and 
mine. 

To bring a maiden, and to say, ' Be- 
hold 

A wife for Japhet.' " Then she an- 
swered, " Sir, 

It shall be done." 

And forth Niloiya sped. 
She gathered all her jewels, —all she 

held 
Of costly or of rich, — and went and 

spake 
With some few slaves that yet abode 

with her, 
For daily they were fewer; and went 

forth. 
With fair and flattering words, among 

her feres. 
And fain had wrought with them : and 

she had hope 
That made her sick, it was so faint ; 

and then 
She had fear, and after she had cer- 
tainty, 
For all did scorn her. " Nay," they 

cried, " O fool ! 
If this be so, and on a watery world 
Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife 
Be free or bond ? There shall be none 

to rule, 
If she have freedom : if she have it not^ 
None shall there be to serve." 

And she alit, 
The time being done, desponding at 

her door, 
And went behind a screen, where 

should have wrought 
The daughters of the captives; but 

there wrought 
One only, and this rose from off the 

floor. 
Where she the river rush full deftly 

wove. 
And made obeisance. Then Niloiya 

said, 
"Where are thy fellows?" And the 

maid replied, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



i63 



" Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved, 
Be angry ; they are fled since yester- 
night." 
Then said Niloiya, "Amarant, my 

slave, 
When have I called thee by thy name 

before?" 
She answered, " Lady, never ; " and 

she took 
And spread her broidered robe before 

her face. 
Niloiya spoke thus:' "I am come to 

woe, 
And thou to honor." Saying this, she 

wept 
Passionate tears; and all the damsel's 

soul 
Was full of yearning wonder, and her 

robe 
Slipped from her hand, and her right 

innocent face 
Was seen betwixt her locks of tawny 

hair 
That dropped about her knees, and her 

two eyes, 
Blue as the much-loved flower that rims 

the beck, 
Looked sweetly on Niloiya ; but she 

knew 
No meaning in her words; and she 

drew nigh, 
And kneeled and said, " Will this my 

lady speak ?_ 
Her damsel is desirous of her words." 
Then said Niloiya, " I, thy mistress, 

sought 
A wife for Japhet, and no wife is 

found." 
And yet again she wept with grief of 

heart. 
Saying, "Ah me, miserable! I must 

give 
A wife, — the Master willeth it, — a 

wife. 
Ah me! unto the high-born. He will 

scorn 
His mother and reproach me. I must 

give — 
None else have I to give — a slave — 

even thee-" 
This further spake Niloiya : " I was 

good, — 
Had rue on thee, a tender sucking 

child, 



When they did tear thee from thy 

mother' s breast ; 
I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I 

taught 
Thy hands all cunning arts that women 

prize. 
But out on me 1 my good is turned to 

ill. 
O Japhet, well beloved ! " And she 

rose up. 
And did restrain herself, saying, 

" Dost thou heed? 
Behold, this thing shall be." The 

damsel sighed, 
" Lady, I do." Then went Niloiya 

forth. 



And Amarant murmured in her deep 

amaze, 
" Shall Japhet's little children kiss my 

mouth ? 
And will he sometimes take them from 

my arms. 
And almost care for me for their sweet 

sake ? 
I have not dared to think I loved him, 

— now 
I know it well : but O, the bitterness 
For him ! " And ending thus, the 

damsel rose. 
For Japhet entered. And she bowed 

herself 
Meekly and made obeisance, but her 

blood 
Ran cold about her heart, for all his 

face 
W^s colored with his passion. 

Japhet spoke: 
He said "My father's slave;" and 

she repled. 
Low drooping her fair head, " My 

master's son." 
And after that a silence fell on them. 
With trembling at her heart, and rage 

at his. 
And Japhet, mastered of his passion, 

sat 
And could not speak. O, cruel seemed 

his fate, — 
So cruel he that told it, so unkind. 
His breast was full of wounded love 

and wrath 



i64 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Wrestling together ; and his eyes flashed 

out 
Indignant lights, as all amazed he took 
The insult home that she had offered 

him, 
Who should have held his honor dear. 

And, lo, 
The misery choked him, and he cried 

in pain, 
"Go, get thee forth;" but she, all 

white and still. 
Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake 

not. 
Nor moved. And Japhet rose up 

passionate, 
With lifted arm as one about to strike ; 
But she cried out and met him, and 

she held 
With desperate might his hand, and 

prayed to him, 
" Strike not, or else shall men from 

henceforth say, 
'Japhet is like to us.' " And he shook 

off 
The damsel, and he said, " I thank 

thee, slave ; 
For never have I stricken yet or child 
Or woman. Not for thy sake am I 

glad. 
Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey 

my words." 
Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and 

wept. 

And no more he restrained himself, 

but cried, 
Withheavingsof the heart, "O hateful 

day! 
O day that shuts the door upon de- 
light ! 
A slave ! to wed a slave ! O loathed 

wife. 
Hated of Japhet' s soul." And after, 

long. 
With face between his hands, he sat, 

his thoughts 
Sullen and sore ; then scorned himself, 

and saying, 
" I will not take her, I will die unwed, 
It is but that ; " lift ap his eyes and 

saw 
The slave, and she was sitting at his 

feet 



And he, so greatly wondering that she 

dared 
The disobedience, looked her in the face 
Less angry than afraid, for pale she 

was 
As lily yet unsmiled on by the sun ; 
And he, his passion being spent, sighed 

out, 
" Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou 

no fear. 
That thou dost flout me?" but she 

gave to him 
The sighing echo of his sigh, and 

mourned, 
"No." 

And he wondered, and he looked 

again. 
For in her heart there was a new-bom 

pang. 
That cried ; but she, as mothers with 

their young, 
Suffered, yet loved it ; and there shone 

a strange 
Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied 

eyes. 
And Japhet, leaning from the settle, 

thought, 
"What is it? I will call her by her 

name, 
To comfort her, for also she is naught 
To blame ; and since I will not her to 

wife, 
She falls back from the freedom she 

had hoped." 
Then he said, "Amaranf," and the 

damsel drew 
Her eyes down slowly from the shaded 

sky 
Of even, and she said, " My master's 

son, 
Japhet ;" and Japhet said, "I am not 

wroth 
With thee,but wretched for my mother's 

deed. 
Because she shamed me." 

And the maiden said, 
"Doth not thy father love thee well, 

sweet sir?" 
"Ay," quoth he, "well." She an- 
swered, " Let the heart 
Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to 
him 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



'6S 



And say, ' The damsel whom my mother 

chose 
Sits by her in the house ; but as for 

me, 
Sir, ere I take her, let me go with you 
To that same outland country. Also, 

sir, 
My damsel hath not worked as yet the 

robe 
Of her betrothal ; ' now, then, sith he 

loves, 
He will not say thee nay. Herein for 

a while 
Is respite, and thy mother far and near 
Will seek again : it may be she will find 
A fair, free maiden.' ' 

Japhet said, " O maid. 
Sweet are thy words; but what if I 

return, 
And all again be as it is to-day ? ' ' 
Then Amarant answered, " Some have 

died in youth ; 
But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall 

die. 
Though ye shall find it even as I had 

died, — 
Silent, for any words I might have 

said ; 
Empty, for any space I might have 

filled. 
Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar ; 
But if a wife be found, then will I bide 
And serve." He answered, "O, thy 

speech is good ; 
Now, 'herefore (since my mother gave 

me thee), 
I will reward it ; I will find for thee 
A goodly husband, and will make him 

free 
Thee also." 

Then she started from his feet. 
And, red with shame and anger, flashed 

on him 
The passion of her eyes ; and put her 

hands 
With catching of the breath to her fair 

throat. 
And stood in her defiance lost to fear, 
Like some fair hind in desperate danger 

turned 
And brought to bay, and wild in her 

despair. 



But shortly, " I remember," quolh she, 

low. 
With raining down of tears and broken 

sighs, 
"That I am Japhel's slave; beseech 

you, sir, 
As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet 
Of language to me, be not harder now. 
Sir, I was yours to take ; 1 knew not, 

sir. 
That also ye might give me. Pray you, 

sir, 
Be pitiful, — be merciful to me, 
A slave." He said, " I thought to do 

thee good, 
For good hath been thy counsel;" 

but she cried, 
" Good master, be you therefore pitiful 
To me, a slave." And Japhet won- 
dered much 
At her, and at her beauty, for he 

thought, 
" None of the daughters are so fair as 

this, 
Nor stand with such a grace majesti- 

cal; 
She in her locks is like the travelling 

sun. 
Setting, all clad in coifing clouds of 

gold. 
And would she die unmatched ? " He 

said to her, 
" What ! wilt thou sail alone in yonder 

ship. 
And dwell alone hereafter?" "Ay," 

she said, 
" And serve my mistress." 

" It is well," quoth he, 
And held his hand to her, as is the 

way 
Of masters. Then she kissed it, and 

she said, 
" Thanks for benevolence," and turned 

herself, 
Adding, " I rest, sir, on your gracious 

words ; " 
Then stepped into the twilight and was 

gone. 



And Japhet, having found his father, 

said, 
" Sir, let me also journey when ye go." 



i66 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Who answered, "Hath thy mother 

done her part?" 
He said, " Yea, truly, and my damsel 

sits 
Before her in the house ; and also, sir. 
She said to me, ' I have not worked, as 

yet. 
The garment of betrothal.' " And he 

said, 
*"Tis not the manner of our kin to 

speak 
Concerning matters that a woman rules ; 
But hath thy mother brought a damsel 

home. 
And let her see thy face, then all is one 
As ye were wed." He answered, 

" Even so, 
It matters nothing ; therefore hear me, 

sir: 
The damsel being mine, I am content 
To let her do according to her will ; 
And when we shall return, so surely, 

sir, 
As I shall find her by my mother's 

side. 
Then will I take her;" and he left to 

speak ; 
His father answering, " Son, thy words 

are good." 



Night. Now a tent was pitched, and 

Japhet sat 
In the door and watched, for on a litter 

lay 
The father of his love. And he was 

sick 
To death ; but daily he would rouse 

him up. 
And stare upon the light, and ever say, 
"On, let us journey;" but it came to 

pass 
That night, across their path a river 

ran. 
And they who served the father and 

the son 
Had pitched the tents beside it, and 

had made 
A fire, to scare away the savagery 
That roamed in that great forest, for 

their way 
Had led among the trees of God. 



The moon 
Shone on the river, like a silver road | 
To lead them over ; but when Japhet • 

looked. 
He said, " We shall not cross it. I 

shall lay 
This well-beloved head low in the 

leaves, — 
Not on the farther side." From time] 

to time. 
The water-snakes would stir its glassy 

flow 
With curling undulations, and would 

lay 
Their heads along the banks, and, sub- 
tle-eyed, 
Consider those long spirting flames, 

that danced. 
When some red log would break and 

crumble down, 
And show his dark despondent eyes, 

that watched. 
Wearily, even Japhet' s. But he cared 
Little ; and in the dark, that was not 

dark. 
But dimness of confused incertitude. 
Would move a-near all silently, and 

gaze 
And breathe, and shape itself, a maned 

thing 
With eyes ; and still he ca,red not, and 

the form 
Would falter, then recede, and melt 

again 
Into the farther shade. And Japhet 

said : 
"How long? The moon hath grown 

again in heaven. 
After her caving twice, since we did 

leave 
The threshold of our home ; and now 

what 'vails 
That far on tumbled mountain snow we 

toiled, 
Hungry, and weary, all the day ; by 

night 
Waked with' a dreadful trembling un- 
derneath. 
To look, while every cone smoked, and 

there ran 
Red brooks adovra, that licked the 

forest up, 
While in the pale white ashes wading 



A STORY OF DOOM 



167 



We saw no stars? — what 'vails if after- 
ward, 

Astonished with great silence, we did 
move 

Over the measureless, unknown desert 
mead ; 

While all the day, in rents and crevices, 

Would lie the lizard and the serpent 
kind, 

Drowsy ; and in the night take fear- 
some shapes, • 

And ofttimes woman-faced and wom- 
an-haired 

Would trail their snaky length, and 
curse and mourn ; 

Or there would wander up, when we 
were tired. 

Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes 
morose, 

Withstanding us, and staring ; — O, 
what 'vails 

That in the dread deep forest we have 
fought 

With following packs of wolves? 
These men of might. 

Even the giants, shall not hear the 
doom 

My father came to tell them of. Ah 
me I 

If God indeed had sent him, would he 
lie 

(For he is stricken with a sore disease) 

Helpless outside their city?" 

Then he rose. 
And put aside the curtains of the tent, 
To look upon his father's face ; and lo ! 
The tent being dark, he thought that 

somewhat sat 
Beside the litter ; and he set his eyes 
To see it, and saw not ; but only 

marked 
Where, fallen away from manhood and 

from power, 
His father lay. Then he came forth 

again. 
Trembling, and crouched beside the 

dull red fire, 
And murmured, " Now it is the second 

time: 
An old man, as I think (but scarcely 

saw), 
Dreadful of might. Its hair was white 

as wool : 



I dared not look; perhaps I saw not 

aught. 
But only knew that it was there: the 

same 
Which walked beside us once when he 

did pray." 
And Japhet hid his face between his 

hands 
For fear, and grief of heart, and weari- 
ness 
Of watching; and he slumbered not, 

but mourned 
To himself, a little moment, as it 

seemed. 
For sake of his loved father ; then he 

lift 
His eyes, and day had dawned. Right 

suddenly 
The moon withheld her silver, and she 

hung 
Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame 

that played 
By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the 

flood. 
Crept red amongst the logs, and all the 

world 
And all the water blushed and bloomed. 

The stars 
Were gone, and golden shafts came up, 

and touched 
The feathered heads of palms, and 

green was born 
Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew 
Like veils across the mountains ; and 

he saw. 
Winding athwart them, bathed in bliss- 
ful peace. 
And the sacredness of mom, the battle- 
ments 
And outposts of the giants ; and there 

ran 
On the other side the river, as it were. 
White mounds of marble, tabernacles 

fair. 
And towers below a line of inland cliff : 
These were their fastnesses, and here 

their homes. 

In valleys and the forest, all that 

night, 
There had been woe ; in every hollow 

place. 
And under walls, like drifted flowers, 

or snow, 



i68 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Women lay mourning ; for the serpent 

lodged 
That night within the gates, and had 

decreed, 
" I will (or ever I come) that ye drive 

out 
The women, the abhorred of my soul." 

Therefore, more beauteous than all 

climbing bloom. 
Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the 

boughs, 
Or flights of azure doves that lit to 

drink 
The water of the river ; or, new born, 
The quivering butterflies in companies. 
That slowly crept adown the sandy 

marge, 
Like living crocus beds, and also drank. 
And rose an orange cloud ; their hol- 
lowed hands 
They dipped between the lilies, or with 

robes 
Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled 

and ate, 
Weeping; or comforting their little 

ones, 
And lulling them with sorrowful long 

hymns 
Among the palms. 

So went the earlier morn. 
Then came a messenger, while Japhet 

sat 
Mournfully, and he said, "The men of 

might 
Are willing; let thy master, youth, 

appear." 
And Japhet said, " So be if;" and he 

thought, 
"Now will 1 trust in God;" and he 

went in 
And stood before his father, and he 

said, 
"My father;" but the Master an- 
swered not, 
But gazed upon the curtains of his tent, 
Nor knew that one had called him. 

He was clad 
As ready for the journey, and his feet 
Were sandalled, and his staff was at his 

side ; 
And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice 



And spread it on him, and he laid his 

crown 
Upon his knees, and he went forth, 

and lift 
His hand to heaven, and cried, " My 

father's God!" 
But neither whisper came nor echo fell 
When he did listen. Therefore he 

went on : 
" Behold, I have a thing to say to thee. 
My father charged thy servant, ' Let 

not ruth 
Prevail with thee to turn and bear me 

hence, 
For God appointed me my task, to 

preach 
Before the mighty.' I must do my 

part 
(O, let it not displease thee), for he 

said 
But yesternight, * When they shall send 

for me, 
Take me before them.' And I sware 

to him. 
I pray thee, therefore, count his life 

and mine 
Precious ; for I that sware, I will per- 
form. " 



Then cried he to his people, " Let us 

hence : 
Take up the litter." And they set 

their feet 
Toward the raft whereby men crossed 

that flood. 

And while they journeyed, lo, the | 

giants sat I 

Within the fairest hall where all were 

fair, 
Each on his carven throne, o'er-cano^ 

pied 
With work of women. And the dragon 

lay 
In a place of honor ; and with subtlety 
He counselled them, for they did speali 

by turns ; 
And they, being proud, might nothing 

master them. 
But guile alone : and he did fawn on 

them ; 
And when the younger taunted him, 

submiss 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



169 



He testified great humbleness, and 

cried, 
*' A cruel God, forsooth ! but nay, O 

naj', 
I will not think it of Him, that He 

meant 
To threaten these. O, when I look on 

them. 
How doth my soul admire." 

And one stood forth. 
The youngest ; of his brethren named 

"the Rock." 
" Speak out," quoth he, "thou tooth- 
less, slavering thing. 
What is it ? thinkest thou that such as 

we 
Should be afraid ? What is this goodly 

doom ? " 
And Satan laughed upon him. " Lo," 

said he, 
"Thou art not fully grown, and every 

one 
I look on standeth higher by the head. 
Yea, and the shoulders, than do other 

men ; 
Forsooth, thy servant thought not 

thou wouldst fear, 
Thou and thy fellows." Then with 

one accord, 
" Speak," cried they ; and with* mild, 

persuasive eyes, 
And flrttering tongue, he spoke. 

" Ye mighty ones, 
It hath been known to you these many 

days 
How that for piety I am much famed. 
I am exceeding pious : if I He, 
As hath been whispered, it is but for 

sake 
Of God, and that ye should not think 

Him hard, 
For I am all for God. Now some have 

thought 
That He hath also (and it may be so 
Or yet may not be so) on me been 

hard ; 
Be not ye therefore wroth, for my poor 

sake ; 
!• am contented to have earned your 

weal. 
Though I must therefore suffer. 



" Now to-day 
One Cometh, yea, an harmless man, a 

fool, 
Who boasts he hath a message from 

our God, 
And lest that you, for bravery of heart 
And stoutness, being angered with his 

prate, 
Should lift a hand, and kill him, I am 

here." 

Then spoke the Leader, " How now, 

snake ? Thy words 
Ring false. Why ever liest thou, snake, 

to us? 
Thou coward ! none of us will see thee 

harmed. 
I say thou liest. The land is strewed 

with slain ; 
Myself have hewn down companies, 

and blood 
Makes fertile all the field. Thou 

knowest it well ; 
And hast thou, driveller, panting sore 

for age. 
Come with a force to bid us spare one 

fool.>" 

And Satan answered, " Nay you ! be 

not wroth ; 
Yet true it is, and yet not all the truth. 
Your servant would have told the rest, 

if now 
(For fulness of your life being fretted 

sore 
At mine infirmities, which God in vain 
I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused 
My speech to stop." And he they 

called "the Oak" 
Made answer, "'Tis a good snake; let 

him be. 
Why would ye fright the poor old 

craven beast ? 
Look how his lolhng tongue doth foam 

for fear. 
Ye should have mercy, brethren, on 

the weak. 
Speak, dragon, thou hast leave ; make 

stout thy heart. 
What ! hast thou lied to this great com- 
pany ? 
It was, we know it was, for humbleness ; 
Thou wert not willing to offend with 

truth." 



r-jo 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



" Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, "thus 
it was," 

And lifted up appealing eyes, and 
groaned ; 

*' O, can it be, compassionate as brave. 

And housed in cunning works them- 
selves have reared, 

And served in gold, and warmed with 
minivere, 

And ruling nobly, that He, not con- 
tent 

Unless alone He reigneth, looks to 
bend 

Or break them in, like slaves to cry to 
Him, 

' What is Thy will with us, O Master 
dear ? ' 

Or else to eat of death ? 

" For my part, lords, 
I cannot think it : for my piety 
And reason, which I also share with 

you, 
Are my best lights, and ever counsel 

me, 
' Believe not aught against thy God ; 

believe, 
Since thou canst never reach to do Him 

wrong, 
That He will never stoop to do thee 

wrong. 
Is He not just and equal, yea, and 

kind?' 
Therefore, O majesties, it is my mind. 
Concerning him ye wot of, thus to 

think 
The message is not like what I have 

learned, 
By reason and experience, of the God. 
Therefore no message 'tis. The man 

is mad." 
Thereat the Leader laughed for scorn. 

" Hold, snake ; 
If God be just, there shall be reckon- 
ing days. 
We rather would He were a partial 

God, 
And, being strong. He sided with the 

strong. 
Turn now thy reason to the other 

side. 
And speak for that ; for as to justice, 

snake, 
We would have none of it." 



And Satan fawned : 
"My lord is pleased to mock at my 

poor wit ; 
Yet in my pious fashion I must talk : 
For say that God was WTOth with man, 

and came 
And slew him, that should make an 

empty world, 
But not a better nation." 

This replied, 
"Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound 

to mean 
A better nation ; maybe, He designs. 
If none will turn again, a punishment 
Upon an evil one." 

And Satan cried, 
" Alas ! my heart being full of love for 

men, 
I cannot choose but think of God as like 
To me ; and yet my piety concludes, 
Since He will have your fear, that love 

alone 
Sufficeth not, and I admire, and say, 
' Give me, O friends, your love, and 

give to God 
Your fear ' " But they cried' out in 

wrath and rage, 
" We are not strong that any we will 

fear. 
Nor specially a foe that means us ill.'-' 



And while he spoke there was a noise 

without ; 
The curtains of the door were flung 

aside, 
And some with heavy feet bare in, and 

set 
A litter on the floor. 

The Master lay 
Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and 

set ; 
And Japhet, in despairing weariness, 
Leaned it beside. He marked the 

mighty ones, 
Silent for pride of heart, and in his 

place 
The jewelled dragon ; and the dragon 

laughed, 
And subtly peered at him, till Japhet 

shook 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



With rage and fear. The snaky won- 
der cried, 
Hissing, " Thou brown-haired youth, 

come up to me ; 
I fain would have thee for my shrine 

afar, 
To serve among an host as beautiful 
As thou : draw near." It hissed, and 

Japhet felt 
Horrible drawings, and cried out in 

fear, 
" Father ! O help, the serpent draweth 

me ! " 
And struggled and grew faint, as in the 

toils 
A netted bird. But still his father 

Unconscious, and the mighty did not 
speak, 

But half in fear and half for wonder- 
ment 

Beheld. And yet again the dragon 
laughed, 

And leered at him and hissed ; and 
Japhet strove 

Vainly to take away his spell-set 
eyes, 

And moved to go to him, till pierc- 
ingly 

Crying out, "God! forbid it, God in 
heaven! " 

The dragon lowered his head, and shut 
his eyes 

As feigning sleep; and, suddenly re- 
leased, 

He fell back staggering ; and at noise 
of it. 

And clash of Japhet's weapons on the 
floor, 

And Japhet's voice crying out, "I 
loathe thee, snake! 

I hate thee! O, I hate thee!" came 
again 

The senses of the shipwright ; and he, 
moved, 

And looking, as one ' mazed, distress- 
fully 

Upon the mighty, said, "One called 
on God : 

Where is my God? If God have need 
of me, 

Let Him come down and touch my 
lips with strength, 

Or dying I shall die.'' 



It came to pass, 
While he was speaking, that the cur- 
tains swayed ; 
A rushing wind did move throughout 

the place, 
And all the pillars shook, and on the 

head 
Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there 

played 
A somewhat as it were a light, upon 
His breast ; then fell a darkness, and 

men heard 
A whisper as of one that spake. With 

that, 
The daunted mighty ones kept silent 

watch 
Until the wind had ceased and dark- 
ness fled. 
When it grew light, there curled a cloud 

of smoke 
From many censers where the dragon 

lay. 
It hid him. He had called his minis- 

trants. 
And bid them veil him thus, that none 

might look ; 
Also the folk who came with Noah had 

fled. 

But Noah was seen, for he stood up 

erect, 
And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, 

after pause, 
The Leader said, " My brethren, it 

were well 
(For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer 

speak." 
And they did reach toward the man 

their staves. 
And cry with loud accord, " Hail, 

sorcerer, hail! " 

And he made answer, " Hail! I am a 

man 
That is a shipwright. I was born afar 
To Lamech, him that reigns a king, tc 

wit. 
Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, 
I bring a message, — lay you it tc 

heart ; 
For there is wrath in heaven : my God 

is wroth. 
' Prepare your houses, or I come,' saith 

He, 



172 



A SrORV OF DOOM. 



* A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in 

your hearts, 
'What have we done?' Your dogs 

may answer that. 
To make whom fiercer for the chase ye 

feed 
With captives whom ye slew not in the 

war. 
But saved alive, and living throw to 

them 
Daily. Your wives may answer that, 

whose babes 
Their firstborn ye do take and ofifer up 
To this abhorred snake, while yet the 

milk 
Is in their innocent mouths, — your 

maiden babes 
Tender. Your slaves may answer that, 

— the gangs 
Whose eyes ye did put out to make 

them work 
By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes 
They work upon the wheel in chains). 

Your friends 
May answer that, —(their bleached 

bones cry out), — 
For ye did, wickedly, to eat their lands. 
Turn on their valleys, in a time of 

peace. 
The rivers, and they, choking in the 

night, 
Died unavenged. But rather (for I 

leave 
To tell of more, the time would be so 

long 
To do it, and your time, O mighty ones. 
Is short), — but rather say, ' We sin- 
ners know 
Why the Judge standeth at the door,' 

and turn 
While yet there may be respite, and 

repent. 

*' ' Or else,' saith He that formed you, 

' I swear, 
By all the silence of the time to come, 
By the solemnities of death, — yea, 

more, 
By Mine own power and love which ye 

have scorned, — 
That I will come. I will command the 

clouds, 
And raining they shall rain ; yea, I will 

stir 



With all my storms the ocean for youf 

sake. 
And break for you the boundary of the 

deep. 

" ' Then shall the mighty mourn. 

" ' Should I forbear, 

That have been patient? I will not 
forbear ! 

For yet,' saith He, ' the weak cry out ; 
for yet 

The little ones do languish ; and the 
slave 

Lifts up to Me his chain. I, there- 
fore, I 

Will hear them. I by death will scat- 
ter you ; 

Yea, and by death will draw them to 
My breast. 

And gather them to peace. 

" ' But yet,' saith He, 
'Repent, and turn you. Wherefore 
will ye die?' 

"Turn then, O turn, while yet the 

enemy 
Untamed of man fatefully moans afar; 
For if ye will not turn, the doom is 

near. 
Then shall the crested wave make 

sport, and beat 
You mighty at your doors. Will ye be 

wroth ? 
Will ye forbid it? Monsters of the 

deep 
Shall suckle in your palaces their young, 
And swim atween your hangings, all of 

them 
Costly with broidered work, and rare 

with gold 
And white and scarlet (there did ye op- 
press, — 
There did ve make you vile) ; but ye 

shall He 
Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage 

above, 
And urge the weltering wave. 



" 'Yet,' saith thy God, 
' Son,' ay, to each of you He saith, ' O 
son, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



173 



Made in My image, beautiful and 

strong, 
Why wilt thou die ? Thy Father loves 

thee well. 
R.epent and turn thee from thine evil 

ways, 
Q son ! and no more dare the wrath of 

love. 
Live for thy Father's sake that formM 

thee. 
Why wilt thou die ? ' Here will I make 

an end." 



Now ever on his dais the dragon lay, 
Feigning to sleep ; and all the mighty 

ones 
VVere wroth, and chided, some against 

the woe, 
And some at whom the sorcerer they 

had named, — 
Some at their fellows, for the younger 

sort — 
As men the less acquaint with deeds of 

blood. 
And given to learning and the arts of 

peace 
(flheir fathers having crushed rebellion 

out 
Before their time) — lent favorable ears. 
They said, " A man, or false or fanatic. 
May claim good audience if he fill our 

ears 
IVith what is strange: and we would 

hear again." 

The Leader said, " An audience hath 

been given. 
The man hath spoken, and his words 

are naught ; 
A feeble threatener, with a foolish 

threat. 
And it is not our manner that we sit 
Beyond the noonday ; " then they 

grandly rose, 
A stalwart crowd, and with their Lead- 
er moved 
To the tones of harping, and the beat 

of shawms. 
And the noise of pipes, away. But 

some were left 
About the Master; and the feigning 

snake 
Couched on his dais. 



Then c<ie '-> Ja-.^het said, — 

One called "die C^dar Tree," — 
" Dost tbou, *-oo, think 

To reign upou out lands when we lie 
drowned?" 

And Japhet said, '' i think not, nor de- 
sire, 

Nor in my heart consent, but that ye 
swear [cried. 

Allegiance to the God, and live." He 

To one surnamed "the Pine," — 
" Brother, behooves 

That deep we cut our names in yonder 
crag. 

Else when this youth returns, his sons 
may ask 

Our names, and he may answer, ' Mat- 
ters not, 

For my part I forget them.'-" 

Japhet said, 
"They might do worse than that, they 

might deny 
That such as you have ever been." 

With that 
They answered, " No, thou dost not 

think it, no! " 
And Japhet, being chafed, replied in 

heat, 
" And wherefore ? if ye say of what is 

sworn, [hard 

' He will not do it,' shall it be more 
For future men, if any talk on it. 
To say, ' He did not do it' ?" They 

replied. 
With laughter, "Lo you! he is stout 

with us. 
And yet he cowered before the poor old 

snake. 
Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray 

you now 
To bear our might in mind, — do, 

sirrah, do; 
And likewise tell your sons, ' " The 

Cedar Tree '^ 
Was a good giant, for he struck me 

not. 
Though he was young and full of sport, 

and though 
I taunted him.' " 

With that they also passed. 
But there remained who with the ship- 
wright spoke •• 



'74 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



<'How wilt thou certify to us thy 

truth?" 
And he related to them all his ^yays 
From the beginning : of the Voice that 

called ; 
Moreover, how the ship of doom was 

built. 

And one made answer, " Shall the 

.mighty God 
Talk with a man of wooden beams and 

bars? 
No, thou mad preacher, no. If He, 

Eterne, 
Be ordering of His far infinitudes. 
And darkness cloud a world, it is but 

chance. 
As if the shadow of His hand had 

fallen ,, , 

On one that He forgot, and troubled 

it." 

Then said the Master, "Yet,— who 
told thee so ? " 

And from his dais the feigning serpent 

hissed : 
"Preacher, the light within, it was 

that shined. 
And told him so. The pious will have 

dread 
Him to declare such as ye rashly told. 
The course of God is one. It likes not 

us 
To think of Him as being acquaint 

with change : 
It were beneath Him. Nay, the 

finished earth 
Is left to her great masters. They 

must rule ; 
They do ; and I have set myself be- 
tween, — 
A visible thing for worship, sith His 

face 
(For He is hard) He showeth not to 

men. 
Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and 

man, 
To be interpreter, and teach mankind 
A pious lesson by my piety. 
He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires, — 
It were beneath Him." 



And the Master said, 
"Thouliest. Thou wouldst lie away 

the world. 
If He whom thou hast dared to speak 

against 
Would suffer it." "I may not chide 

with thee," 
It answered, " now ; but if there come 

such time 
As thou hast prophesied, as I now 

reign 
In all men's sight, shall my dominion 

then 
Reach to be mighty in their souls. 

Thou too 
Shalt feel it, prophet." And hr 

lowered his head. 



Then quoth the Leader of the youn| 

men: "Sir, 
We scorn you not ; speak further ; ye^ 

our thought 
First answer. Not but by a miracle 
Can this thing be. The fashion of tha 

world 
We heretofore have never known it 

change ; 
And will God change it now ? ' * 



He then replied : 
"What is thy thought? There is no 

MIRACLE? 

There is a great one, which thou hast 

not read, 
And never shalt escape. Thyself, O 

man, 
Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou 

sayest, 
' I am one, and fashioned like tha 

gracious world. 
Red clay is all my make, myself, my 

whole, 
And not my habitation,' then thy sleep 
Shall give thee wings to play among the 

rays 
O' the morning. If thy thought be, ' 1 

am one, — 
A spirit among spirits, — and the world 
A dream my spirit dreameth of, my 

dream 
Being all,' the dominating mountains 

strong 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



'75 



Shall not for that forbear to take thy 

breath, 
And rage with all their winds, and beat 

thee back, 
And beat thee down when thou wouldst 

set thy feet 
Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou 

thyself, 
Being in the world and of the world, 

thyself. 
Hast breathed in breath from Him 

that made the world- 
Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son, 
That which He is, and that which He 

hath made : 
Thou art thy Father's copy of Him- 
self, — 
Thou art thy Father's miracle. 

"Behold, 
He buildeth up the stars in companies ; 
He made for them a law. To man He 

said, 
' Freely I give thee freedom.' What 

remains? 
O, it remains, if thou, the image of 

God, 
Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know 

His ways ; 
But first thou must be loyal, — love, O 

man, 
Thy Father, — hearken when He 

pleads with thee. 
For there is something left of Him 

e'en now, — 
A witness for thy Father in thy soul, 
Albeit thy better state thou hast fore- 
gone. 

" Now, then, be still, and think not in 

thy soul, 
' The rivers in their course forever run. 
And turn not from it. He is like to 

them 
Who made them.' Think the rather, 

' With my foot 
I have turned the rivers from their 

ancient way 
To water grasses that were fading. 

What ! 
Is God my Father as the river wave. 
That yet descendeth, — like the lesser 

thing 



He made, and not like me, a living son, 
That changed the watercourse to suit 
his will? ' 

" Man is the miracle in nature. God 
Is the One Miracle to man. Be- 
hold, 
'There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou 

sayest well : 
In that thou sayest all. To Be is more 
Of wonderful than, being, to have 

wrought. 
Or reigned, or rested. 

" Hold then there, content *, 
Learn that to love is the one way to 

know 
Or God or man : it is not love received 
That maketh man to know the inner 

life 
Of them that love him; his own love 

bestowed 
Shall do it. Love thy Father, and no 

more 
His doings shall be strange. Thou 

shalt not fret 
At any counsel, then, that He will 

send, — 
No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee 
Great reservations. Know, to Be is 

more 
Than to have acted ; yea, or, after rest 
And patience, to have risen and been 

wroth. 
Broken the sequence of an ordered 

earth. 
And troubled nations." 

Then the dragon sighed. 
"Poor fanatic," quoth he, "thou 

speakest well. 
Would I were like thee, for thy faith is 

strong. 
Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, good 

sooth. 
My masters, let us not despise, but 

learn 
Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul. 
Let us go forth — (myself will also go 
To head you) — and do sacrifice; for 

that, 
We know, is pleasing to the mighty 

God: 



t76 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



But as for building many arks of wood, 
O majesties! when He shall counsel 

you 
Himself, then build. What say you, 

shall it be 
An hundred oxen, — fat, well liking, 

white? 
An hundred? why, a thousand were 

not much 
To such as you." Then Noah lift up 

his arms 
To heaven, and cried, "Thou aged 

shape of sin. 
The Lord rebuke thee." 



Then one ran, crying, while Niloiya 

wrought, 
"The Master cometh ! " and she went 

within 
To adorn herself for meeting him. 

And Shem 
Went forth and talked with Japhet in 

the field, 
And said, "Is it well, my brother?" 

He replied, 
"Well! and, I pray you, is it well at 

home ? ' ' 

But Shem made answer, " Can a 

house be well, 
If he that should command it bides 

afar? 
Yet well is thee, because a fair free 

maid 
Is found to wed thee ; and they bring 

her in 
This day at sundown. Therefore is 

much haste 
To cover thick with costly webs the 

floor, 
And pluck and cover thick the same 

with leaves 
Of all sweet herbs, — I warrant, ye 

shall hear 
No footfall where she treadeth ; and 

the seats 
Are ready, spread with robes ; the 

tables set 
With golden baskets, red pomegran- 
ates shred 



To fill them ; and the rubied censers 
smoke, 

Heaped up with ambergris and cinna- 
mon, 

And frankincense and cedar." 

Japhet said, 
"I will betroth her to me straight;" 

and went 
(Yet labored he with sore disquietude) 
To gather grapes, and reap and bind 

the sheaf 
For his betrothal. And his brother 

spake, 
" Where is our father? doth he preach 

to-day?" 
And Japhet answered, "Yea. He 

said to me, 
'Go forward; I will follow when the 

folk 
By yonder mountain-hold I shall have 

warned.' " 

And Shem replied, " How thinkest 

thou ? — thine ears 
Have heard him oft." He answered, 

" I do think 
These be the last days of this old fair 

world." 

Then he did tell him of the giant folk : 
How they, than he, were taller by the 

head ; 
How one must stride that will ascend 

the steps 
That lead to their wide halls ; and how 

they drave. 
With manful shouts, the" mammoth to 

the north ; 
And how the talking dragon lied and 

fawned. 
They seated proudly on their ivoiy 

thrones, 
And scorning him : and of their peaked 

hoods. 
And garments wrought upon, each with 

the tale 
Of him that wore it, — all his manful 

deeds 
(Yea, and about their skirts were effigies 
Of kings that they had slain ; and some, 

whose swords 
Many had pierced, wore vestures all of 

red, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



177 



To signify much blood): and of their 

pride 
He told, but of the vision in the tent 
He told him not. 

And when they reached the house, 

Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, 

"All hail, right fortunate! Lo, I have 
found 

A maid. And now thou hast done 
well to reap 

The late ripe com.^' So he went in 
with her. 

And she did talk with him right moth- 
erly : 

" It hath been fully told me how ye 
loathed 

To wed thy father's slave ; yea, she 
herself. 

Did she not all declare to me?" 

He said, 
"Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of 

heart." 
" Yea," quoth his mother ; " she made 

clear to me 
How ye did weep, my son, and ye did 

vow, 
* I will not take her ! ' Now, it was 

not I 
That wrought to have it so." And he 

replied, 
"I know it." Quoth the mother, " It 

is well ; 
For that same cause is laughter in my 

heart." 
"But she is swpet of language," Ja- 
phet said. 
"Ay," quoth Niloiya, "and thy wife 

no less 
Whom thou shalt wed anon, — forsooth, 

anon, — 
It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt ? " He 

said, 
" I will." And Japhet laid the slender 

sheaf 
From off his shoulder, and he said, 

"Behold, 
My father!" Then Niloiya turned 

herself. 
And lo! the shipwright stood. "All 

hail! " quoth she, 
And bowed herself, and kissed him on 

the mouth ; 



But while she spake with him, sorely 

he sighed ; 
And she did hang about his neck the 

robe 
Of feasting, and she poured upon his 

hands 
Clear water, and anointed him, and set 
Before him bread. 

And Japhet said to him, 
" My father, my beloved, wilt thou yet 
Be sad because of scorning? Eat, this 

day ; 
For as an angel in their eyes thou art 
Who stand before thee." But he an- 
swered, " Peace! 
Thy words are wide." 

And when Niloiya heard, 
She said, " Is this a time for mirth of 

heart 
And wine ? Behold, I thought to wed 

my son. 
Even this Japhet ; but is this a time, 



When sad is he to whom is my desire. 
And lying under sorrow as from God ? ' 



He answered, "Yea, it is a time of 

times ; 
Bring in the maid." Niloiya said, 

" The maid 
That first I spoke on, shall not Japhet 

wed ; 
It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me. 
But I have found another ; yea, good 

sooth, 
The damsel will not tarry, she will come 
With all her slaves by sundown." 

And she said, 

" Comfort thy heart, and eat : more- 
over, know 

How that thy great work even to-day is 
done. 

Sir, thv great ship is finished, and the 
folk 

(For I, according to thy will, have paid 

All that was left us to tiicm for their 
wage) 

Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour 
of wheat. 

Honey and oil, — much victual ', yea, 
and fruits, 



178 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Curtains and household gear. And, 
sir, they say 

It is thy will to take it for thy hold, 

Our fastness and abode." He an- 
swered, " Yea, _ 

Else wherefore was it built?" She 
said, "'Good sir, 

I pray you make us not the whole 
earth's scorn. 

And now, to-morrow in thy father's 
house 

Is a great feast, and weddings are to- 
ward ; 

Let be the ship, till after, for thy words 

Have ever been, ' If God shall send a 
flood, 

There will I dwell ; ' I pray you there- 
fore wait 

At least till He doth send it." 

And he turned. 

And answered nothing. Now the sun 
was low 

While yet she spake ; and Japhet came 
to them 

In goodly raiment, and upon his arm 

The garment of betrothal. And with 
that 

A noise, and then brake in a woman- 
slave 

And Amarant. This, with folding of 
her hands, 

Did say full meekly, "If I do offend. 

Yet have not I been willing to offend ; 

For now this woman will not be denied 

Herself to tell her errand." 

And they sat. 
Then spoke the woman, "If I do 

offend. 
Pray you forgive the bond-slave, for her 

tongue 
Is for her mistress. ' Lo,' my mistress 

saith, 
' Put off thy bravery, bridegroom ; fold 

away, 
Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly 

robes 
Woven of many colors. We have 

heard 
Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil 

thmgs 
He prophesied to us that were his 

friends ; 



Therefore, my answer : — God do so to 

nie ; 
Yea, God do so to me, more also, more 
Than he did threaten, if my damsel's 

foot 
Ever draw nigh thy door.' " 

And when she heard, 
Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul. 
But Japhet came unto the slave, where 

low 
She bowed herself for fear. He said, 

" Depart ; 
Say to thy mistress, ' It is well ' " 

With that 
She turned herself, and she made haste 

to flee, 
Lest any, for those evil words she 

brought. 
Would smite her. But the bondmaid 

of the house 
Lift up her hand and said, "If I 

offend. 
It was not of my heart: thy damsel 

knew 
Naught of this matter." And he held 

to her 
His hand and touched her, and said, 

"Amarant !" 
And when she looked upon him, she 

did take 
And spread before her face her radiant 

locks, 
Trembling. And Japhet said, '* Lift 

up thy face, 

fairest of the daughters, thy fail 

face ; 
For, lo ! the bridegroom standeth with 

the robe 
Of thy betrothal! " — and he took het 

locks 
In his two hands to part them from 

her brow. 
And laid them on her shoulders ; and 

he said, 
" Sweet are the blushes of thy face,'* 

and put 
The robe- upon her, having said, " B !• 

hold, 

1 have repented me ; and oft by night, ' 
In the waste wilderness, while all 

things slept, 
I thought "upon thy words, for they 
were sweet. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



179 



" For this I make thee free. And now 

thyself_ 
Art loveliest in mine eyes ; I look, and 

lo! 
Thou art of beauty more than any 

thought 
I had concerning thee. Let, then, this 

robe. 
Wrought on with imagery of fruitful 

bough. 
And graceful leaf, and birds with ten- 
der eyes, 
Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair.' ' 
So, when she held her peace, he 

brought her nigh 
To hear the speech of wedlock ; ay, he 

took 
The golden cup of wine to drink with 

her, 
And laid the sheaf upon her arms. He 

said, 
" Like as my fathers in the older days 
Led home the daughters whom they 

chose, do I ; 
Like as they said, ' Mine honor have I 

set 
Upon thy head!' do L Eat of my 

bread. 
Rule in my house, be mistress of my 

slaves, 
And mother of my childrei). " 

And he brought 
The damsel to his father, saying, "Be- 
hold 
My wife ! I have betrothed her to my- 
self : 
I pray you, kiss her." And the Mas- 
ter did : 
He said, " Be mother of a multitude. 
And let them to their father even so 
Be found as he is found to me." 

With that 
She answered, " Let this woman, sir, 

find grace 
And favor in your sight." 

And Japhet said, 
** Sweet mother, I have wed the maid 

ye chose 
And brought me first. I leave her in 

thy hand ; 



Have care on her, till I shall come 

again 
And ask her of thee." So they went 

apart. 
He and his father, to the marriage 

feast. 



The prayer of Noah. The man went 

forth by night 
And listened ; and the earth was dark 

and still. 
And he was driven of his great distress 
Into the forest ; but the birds of night 
Sang sweetly ; and he fell upon his 

face, 
And cried, "God, God! Thy billows 

and Thy waves 
Have swallowed up my soul. 

" Where is my God? 
For I have somewhat yet to plead with 

Thee ; 
For I have walked the strands of Thy 

great daep, 
Heard the dull thunder of its rage afar, 
And its dread moaning. O, "the field 

is sweet, — 
Spare it. Tlie delicate woods make 

white their trees 
With blossom, — spare them. Life is 

sweet ; behold 
There is much cattle, and the wild and 

tame, 
Father, do feed in quiet, — spare them. 

"God! 
Where is my God? The long wave 

doth not rear 
Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up, 
And like a chief in battle fall, — not 

yet. 
The lightnings pour not down, from 

ragged holes 
In heaven, the torment of their forkM 

tongues. 
And, like fell serpents, dart and sting, 

— not yet. 
The winds awake not, with their awful 

wings 
To winnow, even as chaflf, from out 

their track. 



j8o 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



AH that withstandeth, and bring down 

the pride 
Of all things strong and all things 

high, — 

" Not yet. 
O, let it not be yet. Where is my 

God ? 
How am I saved, if I and mine be 

saved 
Alone? I am not saved, for I have 

loved 
My country and my kin. Must I, Thy 

thrall, 
Over their lands be lord when they are 

gone ? 
I would not : spare them, Mighty. 

Spare Thyself, 
For Thou dost love them greatly, — 

and if not ..." 

Another praying unremote, a Voice 
Calm as the solitude between wide 
stars. 

" Where is my God, who loveth this 

lost world, — 
Lost from its place and name, but won 

for Thee ? 
Where is my multitude, my multi- 

. tude. 
That I shall gather?" And white 

smoke went up 
From incense that was burning, but 

there gleamed 
No hght of fire, save dimly to re- 
veal 
The whiteness rising, as the prayer of 

him 
That mourned. " My God, appear for 

me, appear ; 
Give me my multitude, for it is mine. 
The bitterness of death I have not 

feared. 
To-morrow shall Thy courts, O God, 

be full. 
Then shall the captive from his bonds 

go free. 
Then shall the thrall find rest, that 

knew not rest 
From labor and from blows. The sor- 
rowful — 
That said of joy, * What is it ? ' and of 

songs, 



' We have not heard them ' — shall be 

glad and sing ; 
Then shall the little ones that knew not 

Thee, 
And such as heard not of Thee, see 

Thy face. 
And, seeing, dwell content." 

The prayer of Noah. 
He cried out in the darkness, " Hear, 

O God, 
Hear Him : hear this one ; through 

the gates of death, 
If life be all past praying for, O give 
To Thy great multitude a way to 

peace ; 
Give them to Him. 

" But yet," said he, "O yet. 
If there be respite for the terrible, 
The proud, yea, such as scorn Thee, — 

and if not . . . 
Let not mine eyes behold their fall." 

He cried, 
" Forgive. I have not done Thy work, 

Great Judge, 
With a perfect heart ; I have but half 

believed. 
While in accustomed language I have 

warned ; 
And now there is no more to do, no 

place 
For my repentance, yea, no hour re- 
mains 
For doing of that work again. O 

lost, 
Lost world! "^ And while he prayed, 

the daylight dawned. 

Aim! Noah went up into the ship, and 

sat 
Before the Lord. And all was still ; 

and now 
In that great quietness the sun came 

up, 
And there were marks across it, as it 

were 
The shadow of a Hand upon the 

sun, — 
Three fingers dark and dread, and 

afterward 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



i8i 



There rose a white thick mist, that 

peacefully 
Folded the fair earth in her funeral 

shroud, — 
The earth that gave no token, save that 

now 
There fell a little trembling under foot. 

And Noah went down, and took and 

hid his face 
Behind his mantle, saying, " I have 

made 
Great preparation, and it may be 

yet, 
Beside my house, whom I did charge 

to come 
This day to meet me, there may enter 

in 
Many that yesternight thought scorn of 

all 
My bidding." And because the fog 

was thick, 
He said, ' ' Forbid it. Heaven, if such 

there be, 
That they should miss the way." And 

even then 
There was a noise of weeping and la- 
ment ; 
'I he words of them that were affrighted, 

yea. 
And cried for grief of heart. There 

came to him 
The mother and her children, and they 

cried, 
"Speak, father, what is this? What 

hast thou done?" 
And when he lifted up his face, he 

saw 
Japhet, his well-belovM, where he 

stood 
Apart ; and Amarant leaned upon his 

breast, 
And hid her face, for she was sore 

afraid ; 
And lo! the robes of her betrothal 

gleamed 
"White in the deadly gloom. 

And at his feet 
The wives of his two other sons did 

kneel, 
And wring their hands. 



One cried, " O, speak to us ; 
We are aflfrighted ; we have dreamed a 

dream, 
Each to herself. For me, I saw in 

mine 
The grave old angels, like to shepherds, 

walk. 
Much cattle following them. Thy 

daughter looked. 
And they did enter here." 

The other lay 
And moaned, "Alas! O father, for my 

dream 
Was evil : lo, I heard when it was dark, 
I heard two wicked ones contend for 

me. 
One said, ' And wherefore should this 

woman live, 
When only for her children, and for 

her, 
Is woe and degradation?' Then he 

laughed. 
The other crying, 'Let alone, O 

Prince ; 
Hinder her not to live and bear much 

seed. 
Because I hate her.' " 

But he said, " Rise up, 
Daughters of Noah, for I have learned 

no words 
To comfort you." Then spake her 

lord to her, 
" Peace ! or I swear that for thy dream 

myself 
Will hate thee also." 

And Niloiya said, 
" My sons, if one of you will hear my 

words. 
Go now, look out, and tell me of the 

day. 
How fares it?" 

And the fateful darkness grew. 
But Shera went up to do his mother's 

will? 
And all was one as though the frighted 

earth 
Quivered and fell a-trembling; then 

they hid 



l82 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



Their faces every one, till he returned, 
And spake not. "Nay," they cried, 

" what hast thou seen? 
O, is it come to this?" He answered 

them, 
"The door is shut." 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 

SAILING BEYOND SEAS. 

{Old Style.) 

Methought the stars were blinking 
bright. 
And the old brig's sails unfurled ; 
I said, " I will sail to my love this 
night 
At the other side of the world." 
I stepped aboard, — we sailed so fast, — 

The sun shot up from the bourn ; 
But a dove that perched upon the mast 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 
O fair dove ! O fond dove ! 

And dove with the white breast. 
Let me alone, the dream is my own, 
And my heart is full of rest. 

My true love fares on this great hill, 

Feeding his sheep for aye ; 
I looked in his hut, but all was still, 

My love was gone away. 
I went to gaze in the forest creek, 

And the dove mourned on apace ; 
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek 
Rose up to show me his place. 
O last love ! O first love ! 

My love with the true heart. 
To think I have come to this your 
home. 
And yet — we are apart! 

My love ! He stood at my right hand, 
His eyes were grave and sweet. 

Methought he said, "In this far land, 
O, is it thus we meet? 

Ah, maid most dear, I am not here ; 
I have no place, — no part, — 



No dwelling more by sea or shore, 
But only in thy heart." 
O fair dove ! O fond dove ! 

Till night rose over the bourn, . 

The dove on the mast, as we sailed | 

fast, I 

Did mourn, and mourn, and ? 

mourn. 



REMONSTRANCE. * 

Daughters of Eve ! your mother did 
not well : 
She laid the apple in your father's 
hand. 
And we have read, O wonder! what 
befell, — 
The man was not deceived, nor yet 
could stand ; 
He chose to lose, for love of her, his 
throne, — 
With her could die, but could not live 
alone. 

Daughters of Eve ! he did not fall so 
low, 
Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman 
fell; _ 

For something better, than as gods to 
know. 

That husband in that home left off I 
to dwell : I 

For this, till love be reckoned less than J 
lore, 
Shall man be first and best for ever- 
more. 

Daughters of Eve ! it was for your deaf 
sake 
The world's first hero died an un- 
crowned king ; 
But God's great pity touched the grand . 
mistake, | 

And made his married love a sacred | 
thing : ^ 

For yet his nobler sons, if aught be 
true. 
Find the lost Eden in their love to 
you. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



183 



SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF 
CHRIST'S RESURRECTION. 

{A Humble Imitation.) 

•' And birds of calm sit brooding on 
the charmed wave." 

It is the noon of night, _ 
And the world's Great Light 
Gone out, she widow-like doth carry 
her : 
The moon hath veiled her face, 
Nor looks on that dread place 
Where He lieth dead in sealed sepul- 
chre ; 
And heaven and hades, emptied, 
lend 
Their flocking multitudes to watch and 
wait the end. 

Tier above tier they rise, 
Their wings new line the skies. 
And shed out comforting light among 
the stars ; 
But they of the other place 
The heavenly signs deface. 
The gloomy brand of hell their bright- 
ness mars ; 
Yet high they sit in throned state, — 
It is the hour of darkness to them dedi- 
cate. 

And first and highest set. 
Where the black shades are met. 
The lord of night and hades leans 
him dowm ; 
His gleaming eyeballs show 
More awful than the glow 
Which hangeth by the points of his 
dread crown ; 
And at his feet, where lightnings 
play, 
The fatal sisters sit and weep, and 
curse their day. 

Lo ! one, with eyes all wide. 
As she were sight denied, 
Sits blindly feeling at her distaflE old ; 

One, as distraught with woe, 

Letting the spindle go, 



Her starry-sprinkled gown doth shiv- 
ering fold ; 
And one right mournful hangs her 
head. 
Complaining, "Woeisnie! I may not 
cut the thread. 



" All men of every birth. 
Yea, great ones of the earth. 
Kings and their councillors, have I 
drawn down ; 
But I am held of Thee,— 
Why dost Thou trouble me, 
To bring me up, dead King, that 
keep'st Thy crown ? 
Yet for all courtiers hast but ten 
Lowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen. 



" OhTnpian heights are bare 
Of whom men worshipped there, 
Immortal feet their snows may print 
no more ; 
Their stately powers below 
Lie desolate, nor know 
This thirty years Thessalian grove or 
shore ; 
But I am elder far than they ; — 
Where is the sentence writ that I must 
pass away ? 

" Art thou come up for this, 
Dark regent, awful Dis? 
And hast thou moved the deep to 
mark our ending ? 
And stirred the dens beneath 
To see us eat of death. 
With all the scoffing heavens toward 
us bending? 
Help! powers of ill, see not us 
die!" 
But neither demon dares, nor angel 
deigns, reply. 

Her sisters, fallen on sleep. 
Fade in the upper deep, 
And their grim lord sits on, in doleful 
trance ; 
Till her black veil she rends, 
And with her death-shriek bends 
Downward the terrors of her counte- 
nance ; 



i84 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



Then, whelmed in night and no 
more seen, 
They leave the world a doubt if ever 
such have been. 



And the winged armies twain 
Their awful watch maintain \ 
They mark the earth at rest with her 
Great Dead. 
Behold, from Antres wide, 
Green Atlas heave his side ; 
His moving woods their scarlet clus- 
ters shed, 
The swathing coif his front that 
cools, 
And tawny lions lapping at his palm- 
edged pools. 

Then like a heap of snow, 
Lying where grasses grow, 
See glimmering, while the moony 
lustres creep. 
Mild-mannered Athens, dight 
In dewy marbles white, 
Among her goddesses and gods 
asleep ; 
And, swaying on a purple sea. 
The many moored galleys clustering at 
her quay. 

Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade. 
Amid their camels laid, 
The pastoral tribes with all their 
flocks at rest ; 
Like to those old-world folk 
With whom two angels broke 
The bread of men at Abram's cour- 
teous 'quest, 
When, listening as they prophe- 
sied, 
His desert princess, being reproved, 
her laugh denied. 



Or from the Morians' land 
See worshipped Nilus bland, 
Taking the silver road he gave the 
world, 
To wet his ancient shrine 
With waters held divine, 
And touch his temple steps with 
wavelets curled, 



And list, ere darkness change to 
gray, 
Old minstrel-throated Memnon chant- 
ing in the day. 

Moreover, Indian glades, 
Where kneel the sun-swart maids, 
On Gunga's flood their votive flow- 
ers to throw. 
And launch i' the sultry night 
Their burning cressets bright. 
Most like a fleet of stars that south- 
ing go. 
Till on her bosom prosperously 
She floats them shining forth to sail tha 
lulled sea. 



Nor bend they not their eyn 
Where the watch-fires shine. 
By shepherds fed, on hills of Beth- 
lehem : 
They mark, in goodly wise, 
The city of David rise. 
The gates and towers of rare Jeru- 
salem ; 
And hear the 'scaped Kedron fret, 
And night dews dropping from the 
leaves of Olivet. 



But now the setting moon 
To curtained lands must soon. 
In her obedient fashion, minister ; 
She first, as loath to go. 
Lets her last silver flow 
Upon her Master's sealed sepulchre s 
And trees that in the garden 
spread. 
She kisseth all for sake of His low- 
lying head. 

Then 'neath the rim goes dovra ; 
And night with darker frown 
Sinks on the fateful garden watched 
long; 
When some despairing eyes. 
Far in the murky skies. 
The unwished waking by their gloom 
foretell ; 
And blackness up the welkin 
swings, 
And drinks the mild effulgence from 
celestial wings. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



i8s 



Last, with amazed cry, 
The hosts asunder fly, 
Leaving an empty gulf of blackest 
hue ; 
Whence straightway shooteth 

down, 
By the Great Father thrown, 
A mighty angel, strong and dread to 
' « view ; 

And at his fall the rocks are rent. 
The waiting world doth quake with 
mortal tremblement ; 

The regions far and near 
Quail with a pause of fear. 
More terrible than aught since time 
began ; 
The winds, that dare not fleet, 
Drop at his awful feet. 
And in its bed wails the wide ocekn ; 
The flower of dawn forbears to 
blow. 
And the oldest running river cannot 
skill to flow. 

At stand, by that dread place, 
He lifts his radiant face, 
And looks to heaven with reverent 
love and fear ; 
Then, while the welkin quakes. 
And muttering thunder breaks. 
And lightnings shoot and ominous 
meteors drear, 
And all the daunted earth doth 
moan. 
He from the doors of death rolls back 
the sealed stone- — 

— In regal quiet deep, 
Lo, One new waked from sleep ! 
Behold, He standeth in the rock- 
hewn door ! 
Thy children shall not die, — 
Peace, peace, thy Lord is by ! 
He liveth ! — they shall live for ever- 
more. 
Peace I lo. He lifts a priestly hand, 
And blesseth all the sons of men in_ 
every land. 

Then, with great dread and wail, 
Fall down, like storms of hail, 
The legions of the lost in fearful 
wise ; 



And they whose blissful race 
Peoples the better place 
Lift up their wings to cover their fair 
eyes, 
And through the waxing saffron 
brede. 
Till they are lost in light, recede, and 
yet recede. 

So while the fields are dim, 
And the red sun his rim 
First heaves, in token of his reign 
benign. 
All stars the most admired, 
Into their blue retired, 
Lie hid, — the faded moon forgets to 
shine, — 
And, hurrying down the sphery 
way, 
. Night flies and sweeps her shadow from 
the paths of day. 

But look ! the Saviour blest, 
Calm after solemn rest. 
Stands in the garden 'neath His olive- 
boughs ; 
The earliest smile of day 
Doth on His vesture play, 
And light the majesty of His still 
brows ; 
While angels hang with wings out- 
spread. 
Holding the new-won crown above His 
saintly head. 



SONG OF MARGARET. 

Av, I saw her, we have met, — 

Married eyes, how sweet they be, — 
Are you happier, Margaret, 

Than you might have been with me? 
Silence ! make no more ado ! 

Did she think x should forget? 
Matters nothing, though I knew, 

Margaret, Margaret. 

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, 
Told a certain thing to mine ; 

What they told me I put by, 
O, so careless of the sign. 



i86 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



Such an easy thing to take, 
And I did not want it then ; 

Fool ! I wish my heart would break, 
Scorn is hard on hearts of men. 



Scorn of self is bitter work, — 

Each of us has felt it now : 
Bluest skies she counted mirk, 

Self-betrayed of eyes and brow ; 
As for me, I went my way, _ 

And a better man drew nigh. 
Fain to earn, with long essay, 

What the winner' s hand threw by. 



Matters not in deserts old, 

What was born, and waxed, and 
yearned. 
Year to year its meaning told, 

I am come, — its deeps are learned, — 
Come, but there is naught to say, — 

Married eyes with mine have met. 
Silence ! O, I had my day, 

Margaret, Margaret. 



SONG OF THE GOING AWAY. 

" Old man, upon the green hillside. 
With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er, 

How long in silence wilt thou bide 
At this low stone door ? 



" I stoop : within 'tis dark and still ; 

But shadowy paths methinks there 
be. 
And lead they far into the hill ? " 

" Traveher, come and see." 



*"Tis dark, 'tis cold, and hung with 
gloom ; 

I care not now within to stay ; 
For thee and me is scarcely room, 

I will hence away." 

*' Not so, not so, thou youthful guest. 
Thy foot shall issue forth no more : 

Behold the chamber of thy rest, 
And the closing door! " 



" O, have I 'scaped the whistling ball, 
And striven on smoky fields of fight, 

And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall 
In the dangerous night ; 

" And borne my life unharmed still 
Through foaming gulfs of yeasty 
spray. 

To yield it on a grassy hill 
At the noon of day ?" 



"Peace! Say thy prayers, and go to 
sleep. 
Till some time, One my seal shall 
break. 
And deep shall answer unto deep. 
When He crieth, 'Awake! ' " 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 
{Song of the uncommunicated Ideal.) 

I OPENED the eyes of my soul. 

And behold, 
A white river-lily: a lily awake, and 

aware, — 
For she set her face upward, — av/are 

how in scarlet and gold 
A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of 
the wandering air. 
Lay over with fold upon fold, 
With fold upon fold. 

And the blushing sweet shame of the 

cloud made her also ashamed, 
The white river-lily, that suddenly 

knew she was fair ; 
And over the far-away mountains that 

no man hath named, 
And that no foot hath trod, 
Flung down out of heavenly places, 

there fell, as it were, 
A rose-bloom, a token of love, that 

should make them endure, 
Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who 

keep themselves pure. 
And look up to God. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



187 



Then I said, " In rosy air, 
Cradled on thy reaches fair, 
While the blushing early ray 
Whitens into perfect day. 
River-lily, sweetest known, 
Art thou set for me alone ? 
Nay, but I will bear thee far, 
Where yon clustering steeples are, 
And the bells ring out o'erhead. 
And the stated prayers are said ; 
And the busy farmer's pace. 
Trading in the market-place ; 
And the country lasses sit 
By their butter, praising it ; 
And the latest news is told, 
While the fruit and cream are sold ; 
And the friendly gossips greet, 
Up and down the sunny street. 
For," I said, " I have not met, 
White one, any folk as yet 
Who would send no blessing up, 
Looking on a face like thine ; 
For thou art as Joseph's cup, 
And by thee might they divine. 

" Nay ! but thou a spirit art ; 
Men shall take thee in the mart 
For the ghost of their best thought. 
Raised at noon, and near them 

brought ; 
Or the prayer they made last night. 
Set before them all in white." 

And I put out my rash hand, 
For I thought to draw to land 
The white lily. Was it fit 
Such a blossom should expand. 
Fair enough for a world's wonder. 
And no mortal gather it? 
No. I strove, and it went under. 
And I drew, but it went down ; 
And the water-weeds' long tresses. 
And the overlapping cresses. 
Sullied its admired crown. 
Then along the river strand, 
Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, 
Of its beauty half despoiled, 
And its snowy pureness soiled: 
O ! I took it m my hand, — 
You will never see it now. 
White and golden as it grew : 
No, 1 cannot show it you, 
Nor the cheerful town endow 
With the freshness of its brow. 



If a royal painter, great 
With the colors dedicate 
To a dove's neck, a sea-bight. 
And the flickerings over white 
Mountain summits far away, — 
One content to give his mind 
To the enrichment of mankind. 
And the laying up of light 
In men's houses, — on that day, 
Could have passed in kingly mood, 
Would he ever have endued 
Canvas with the peerless thing, 
In the grace that it did bring. 
And the light that o'er it flowed, 
With the pureness that it showed, 
And the pureness that it meant ? 
Could he skill to make it seen 
As he saw? For this, I ween. 
He were likewise impotent. 



I opened the doors of my heart. 

And behold, 
There was music within and a song. 
And echoes did feed on the sweetness, 

repeating it long. 
I opened the doors of my heart. And 

behold. 
There was music that played itself out 

in a?olian notes ; 
Then was heard, as a far-away bell at 
long intervals tolled, 
That murmurs and floats. 
And presently dieth, forgotten of forest 

and wold, 
And comes in all passion again and a 
tremblement soft, 
That maketh the listener full oft 
To whisper, " Ah ! would I might hear 
it forever and aye. 
When I toil in the heat of the day. 
When I walk in the cold." 

I opened the door of my heart. And 

behold, 
There was music within, and a song. 
But while I was hearkening, lo, black- 
ness without, thick and strong, 
Came up and came over, and all that 
sweet fluting was drowned, 
I could hear it no more ; 



i88 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



For the welkin was moaning, the waters 
were stirred on the shore, 
And trees in the dark all around 

Were shaken. It thundered. "Hark, 
hark ! there is thunder to-night I 

The sullen long wave rears her head, 
and comes down with a will ; 

The awful white tongues are let loose, 
and the stars are all dead ; — 

There is thunder! it thunders! and 
ladders of light 
Run up. There is thunder ! " I 
said, 

"Loud thunder! it thunders! and up 
in the dark overhead, 

A down-pouring cloud (there is thun- 
der ! ), a down-pouring cloud 

Hails out her fierce message, and quiv- 
ers the deep in its bed, 

And cowers the earth held at bay ; and 
they mutter aloud, 

And pause with an ominous tremble, 
till, great in their rage. 

The heavens and earth come together, 
and meet with a crash ; 

And the fight is so fell as if Time had 
come down with the flash, 
And the story of life was all read, 
And the Giver had turned the last 
page 

Now their bar the pent water-floods 
lash, 
And the forest trees give out their lan- 
guage austere with great age ; 

And there flieth o'er moor and o'er 
hill. 

And there heaveth at intervals wide, 
The long sob of nature's great passion, 
as loath to subside. 

Until quiet drop down on the tide, 

And mad Echo hath moaned herself 
still. 

Lo! or ever I was 'ware, 

In the silence of the air. 
Through my heart's wide-open door, 
Music floated forth once more. 
Floated to the world's dark rim. 
And looked over with a hymn ; 
Then came home with flutings fine, 
And discoursed in tones divine 
Of a certain grief of mine ; 



And went downward and went in, 
Glimpses of my soul to win, 
And discovered such a deep 
That I could not choose but weep. 
For it lay, a land-locked sea, 
Fathomless and dim to me. 



O the song! it came and went, 
Went and came. 

I have not learned 
Half the lore whereto it yearned, 
Half the magic that it meant. 
Water booming in a cave ; 
Or the swell of some long wave, 
Setting in from unrevealed 
Countries ; or a foreign tongue, 
Sweetly talked and deftly sung, 
While the meaning is iialf sealed ; 
May be like it. You have heard 
Also ; — can you find a word 
For the naming of such song? 
No ; a name would do it wrong. 
You have heard it in the night, 
In the dropping rain's despite, 
In the midnight darkness deep, 
When the children were asleep, 
And the wife — no, let that be ; 
She asleep! She knows right well 
What the song to you and me. 
While we breathe, can never tell ; 
She hath heard its faultless flow. 
Where the roots of music grow. 

While I listened, like young birds. 
Hints were fluttering ; almost words, — 
Leaned and leaned, and nearer came ; — 
Everything had changed its name. 

Sorrow was a ship, I found, 
Wrecked with them that in her are. 
On an island richer far 
Than the port where they were bound. 
Fear was but the awful boom 
Of the old great bell of doom. 
Tolling, far from earthly air. 
For all worlds to go to prayer. 
Pain, that to us mortal clings, 
But the pushing of our wings, 
That we have no use for yet, 
And the uprooting of our feet 
From the soil where they are set. 
And the land we reckon sweet. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



189 



Love In growth, the grand deceit 
Whereby men the perfect greet ; 
Love in wane, the blessing sent 
To be (howsoe'er it went) 
Nevermore with earth content. 

G, full sweet, and O, full high, 

Ran that music up the sky ; 

But I cannot sing it you, 

More than I can make you view, 

With my paintings labial, 

Sitting up in awful row, 

White old men majestical, 

Mountains, in their gowns of snow. 

Ghosts of kings ; as my two eyes, 

Looking over speckled skies. 

See them now. About their knees, 

Half in haze, there stands at ease 

A great army of green hills. 

Some bareheaded ; and, behold, 

Small green mosses creep on some. 

Those be mighty forests old ; 

And white avalanches come 

Through yon rents, where now distils 

Sheeny silver, pouring down 

To a tune of old renown. 

Cutting narrow pathways through 

Gentian belts of airy blue, 

To a zone where starwort blows, 

And long reaches of the rose. 

So, that haze all left behind, 
Down the chestnut forests wind, 
Past yon jagged spires, where yet 
Foot of man was never set ; 
Past a castle yawning wide, 
With a great breach in its side, 
To a nest-like valley, where, 
Like a sparrow's egg in hue. 
Lie two lakes, and teach the true 
Color of the sea-maid's hair. 

What beside ? The world beside ! 
Drawing down and down to greet 
Cottage clusters at our feet, — 
Every scent of summer tide, — 
Flowery pastures all aglow 
(Men and women mowing go 
Up and down them) ; also soft 
Floating of the film aloft. 
Fluttering of the leaves alow. 
Isthistoid? It is not told. 
Where's the danger? where's the cold 



Slippery danger up the steep ? 
Where yon shadow fallen asleep ? 
Chirping bird and tumbling spray, 
Light, work, laughter, scent of hay. 
Peace, and echo, where are they ? 

Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold ; 
Memory must their grace enfold 
Silently ; and that high song 
Of the heart, it doth belong 
To the hearers Not a whit, 
Though a chief musician heard, 
Could he make a tune for it. 

Though a lute full deftly strung. 
And the sweetest bird e'er sung, 
Could have tried it, — O, the lute 
For that wondrous song were mute, 
And the bird would do her part, 
Falter, fail, and break her heart, — 
Break her heart, and furl her wings, 
On the unexpressive strings. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

{On tite Adi'antag'es of the Poetical 
Tetnperament.) 

AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBT- 
FUL MORAL. 

O HAPPY Gladys ! I rejoice with her. 
For Gladys saw the island. 

It was thus : 
They gave a day for pleasure in the 

school 
Where Gladys taught; and all the 

other girls 
Were taken out to picnic in a wood. 
But it was said, " We think it were not 

well 
That little Gladys should acquire a 

taste 
For pleasure, going about, and needless 

change. 
It would not suit her station : discon- 
tent 
Might come of it ; and all lifc\ dav\^ 

now 



igo 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



She does so pleasantly, that we were 
best 

To keep her humble." So they said 
to her, 

" Gladys, we shall not want you, all to- 
day. 

Look, you are free ; you need not sit at 
work: 

No, you may take a long and pleasant 
walk 

Over the sea-clifF, or upon the beach 

Among the visitors." 

Then Gladys blushed 
For joy, and thanked them. What ! a 

holiday, 
A whole one, for herself! How good, 

how kind! 
With that, the marshalled carriages 

drove off ; 
And Gladys, sobered with her weight 

of joy. 
Stole out beyond the groups upon the 

beach— _ 
The children with their wooden spades, 

the band 
That played for lovers, and the sunny 

stir 
Of cheerful life and leisure — to the 

rocks. 
For these she wanted most, and there 

was time 
To mark them ; how like ruined organs 

prone 
They lay, or leaned their giant fluted 

pipes, 
And let the great white-crested reckless 

wave 
(Seat out their booming melody. 

The sea 

Was filled with light; in clear blue 
caverns curled 

The breakers, and they ran, and seemed 
to romp. 

As playing at some rough and danger- 
ous game, 

While all the nearer waves rushed in to 
help. 

And all the farther heaved their heads 
to peep, 

And tossed the fishing-boats. Then 
Gladys laughed, 



And said, "O happy tide, to be so 

lost 
In sunshine, that one dare not look at 

it; 
And lucky cliffs, to be so 'brown and 

warm ; 
And yet how lucky are the shadows, 

too, 
That lurk beneath their ledges. It is 

strange. 
That in remembrance though I lay 

them up. 
They are forever, when I come to 

them. 
Better than I had thought. O, some- 
thing yet 
I had forgotten. Oft I say, 'At least 
This picture is imprinted ; thus and 

thus. 
The sharpened serried jags run up, run 

out. 
Layer on layer.' And I look — up — 

up — 
High, higher up again, till far aloft 
They cut into their ether — brown, and 

clear. 
And perfect. And I, saying, ' This is 

mine. 
To keep,' retire; but shortly come 

agam, 
And they confound me vnth a glorious 

change. 
The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at 

them ; 
They redden, and their edges drip with 

— what ? 
I know not, but 'tis red. It leaves no 

stain, 
For the next morning they stand up 

like ghosts 
In a sea-shroud, and fifty thousand 

mews 
Sit there, in long white files, and chat- 
ter on, _ ... 
Like silly school-girls in their silliest 

mood. 



" There is the boulder where we always 

turn. 
O, I have longed to pass it; now I 

will. 
What would they say? for one must 

slip and spring ; 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



191 



'Young ladies! Gladys! I am shocked. 

My dears, 
Decorum, if you please: turn back at 

once. 
Gladys, we blame you most ; you 

should have looked 
Bef(»re you.' Then they sigh, — how 

kind they are ! — 
' What will become of you, if all your 

life 
You look a long way off? — look any- 
where, 
And everywhere, instead of at your 

feet, 
And where they carry you!' Ah, 

well, I know- 
It is a pity," Gladys said ; " but then 
We cannot all be wise : happy for me 
That other people are. 

"And yet I wish, — 
For sometimes very right and serious 

thoughts 
Come to me, — I do wish that they 

would come 
When they are wanted! — when I 

teach the sums 
On rainy days, and when the practis- 
ing 
I count to, and the din goes on and on. 
Still the same tune and still the same 

mistake, 
Then I am wise enough: sometimes I 

feel 
Quite old. I think that it will last, and 

say, 
'Now my reflections do me credit! 

now 
I am a woman ! ' and I wish they 

knew 
How serious all my duties look to me. 
And how my heart hushed down and 

shaded lies, 
Just like the sea, when low, convenient 

clouds 
Come over, and drink all its sparkles 

up. 
But does it last ? Perhaps, that very 

day, 
The front door opens : out we walk m 

pairs ; 
And I am so delighted with this world. 
That suddenly has grown, being new 

washed, 



To such a smiling, clean, and thankful 

world. 
And with a tender face shining through 

tears, 
Looks up into the sometime lowering 

sky. 
That has been angry, but is reconciled, 
And just forgiving her, that I, — that 

O, I forget myself: what matters how! 
And then I hear (but always kindly 

said) 
Some words that pain me so, — but just, 

but true: 
' For if your place in this establishment 
Be but subordinate, and if your birth 
Be lowly, it the more behooves — Well, 

well. 
No more. We see that you are sorry.' 

Yes! 
I am always sorry then ; but now, — 

O, now. 
Here is a bight more baautiful than 

all." 

"And did they scold her, then, my 

pretty one.^ 
And did she want to be as wise as 

they, — 
To bear a bucklered heart and priggish 

mind? 
Ay, you may crow ; she did ! but no, 

no, no, 
The night-time will not let her ; all the 

stars 
Say nay to that ; the old sea laughs at 

her. 
Why, Gladys is a child; she has not 

skill 
To shut herself within her own small 

cell, 
And build the door up, and to say, 

' Poor me ! 
I am a prisoner ; ' then to take hewn 

stones, 
And,, having built the windows up, to 

say, 
*0, it is daijc! there is no sunshine 

here ; 
There never has been.' " 



Strange ! how very strange I 
A woman passing Gladys with a babe, 



192 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



To whom she spoke these words, and 

only looked 
Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled 

her curls, 
And never looked at Gladys, never 

once. 
"A simple child," she added, and went 

by, 
"To want to change her greater for 

their less ; 
But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she ; 
We love her — don't we? — far too 

well for that." 

Then Gladys, flushed with shame and 

keen surprise, 
*' How could she be so near, and I not 

know ? 
And have I spoken out my thought 

aloud ? 
I must have done, forgetting. It is 

well 
She walks so fast, for I am hungry now, 
And here is water cantering down the 

cliff. 
And here a shell to catch it with, and 

here 
The round plump buns they gave me, 

and the fruit. 
Now she is gone behind the rock. O, 

rare 
To be alone ! " So Gladys sat her 

down. 
Unpacked her little basket, ate and 

drank. 
Then pushed her hands into the warm 

dry sand. 
And thought the earth was happy, 

and she too 
Was going round with it in happiness, 
That holiday. " What was it that she 

said?" 
Quoth Gladys, cogitating; "they were 

kind, 
The words that woman spoke. She 

does not know ! 
' Her greater for their less,' — it makes 

me laugh, — 
But yet," sighed Gladys, "though it 

must be good 
To look and to admire, one should not 

wish 
To steal their virtues, and to put them 

on. 



Like feathers from another wing; be- 
side. 

That calm, and that grave conscious- 
ness of worth, 

When all is said, would little suit with 
me, 

Who am not worthy. When our 
thoughts are born, 

Though they be good and humble, one 
should mind 

How they are reared, or some will go 
astray 

And shame their mother. Cain and 
Abel both 

Were only once removed from inno- 
cence. 

Why did I envy them ? That was not 
good ; 

Yet it began with my humility." 

But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her 

eyes, 
And right before her, on the horizon's 

edge. 
Behold, an island! First, she looked 

away 
Along the solid rocks and steadfast 

shore, 
For she was all amazed, believing not, 
And then she looked again, and there 

again 
Behold, an island! And the tide had 

turned, ' 

The milky sea had got a purple rim. 
And from the rim that mountain island 

rose, 
Purple, with two high peaks, the 

' northern peak 
The higher, and with fell and precipice, 
It ran down steeply to the water's 

brink ; 
But all the southern line was long and 

soft. 
Broken with tender curves, and, as she 

thought. 
Covered with forest or with sward. 

But, look ! 
The sun was on the island ; and he 

showed 
On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. 
Then Gladys held her breath ; she said, 

" Indeed, 
Indeed it is an island ; how is this, 
I never saw it till this fortunate 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



193 



Rare holiday ? " And while she strained 

her eyes, 
She thought that it began to fade ; but 

not 
To*change as clouds do, only to with- 
draw 
And melt into its azure ; and at last, 
Little by little, from her hungry heart, 
That longed to draw things marvellous 

to itself, 
And yearned towards the riches and the 

great 
Abundance of the beauty God hath 

made. 
It passed away. Tears started in her 

eyes, 
And when they dropt, the mountain 

isle was gone ; 
The careless sea had quite forgotten it. 
And all was even as it had been before. 

And Gladys wept, but there was luxury 
In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, 
" O, what a little while ! I am afraid ' 
I shall forget that purple mountain isle, 
The lovely hollows atween her snow- 
clad peaks. 
The grace of her upheaval where she 

lay 
Well up against the open.- O, rny heart. 
Now I remember how this holiday 
Will soon l3e done, and now my life 

goes on 
Not fed ; and only in the noonday walk 
Let to look silently at what it wants, 
Without the power to wait or pause 

awhile, 
And understand and draw within itself 
The richness of the earth. A holiday! 
How few I have ! I spend the silent 

time 
At work, while all their pupils are 

gone home. 
And feel myself remote. They shine 

apart ; 
They are great planets, I a little orb ; 
My little orbit far within their own 
Turns, and approaches not. But yet, 

the more 
I am alone when those I teach return ; 
For they, as planets of some other sun. 
Not mine, have paths that can but 

meet my ring 
Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am ! 



I have not got laid up in this blank 
heart 

Any indulgent kisses given me 

Because I had been good, or, yet more 
sweet, 

Because my childhood was itself a 
good 

Attractive thing for kisses, tender 
praise. 

And comforting. An orphan-school at 
best 

Is a cold mother in the winter time 

('Twas mostly winter when new or- 
phans came). 

An unregardful mother in the spring. 

"Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) 

we went 
To gather cowslips. How we thought 

on it 
Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull 

street. 
To that one tree, the only one we saw 
From April, — if the cowslips were in 

bloom 
So early; or, if not, from opening 

May 
Even to September. Then there came 

the feast 
At Epping. If it rained that day, it 

rained 
For a whole year to us ; we could not 

think 
Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the 

leaves 
Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever 

rained. 

"Ah, well, but I am here ; but I have 

seen 
The gay gorse bushes in their flowering 

time ; 
I know the scent of bean-fields ; I have 

heard 
The satisfying murmur of the main." 

The woman ! she came round the rock 

again 
With her fair baby, and she sat her 

down 
By Gladys, murmuring, " Who forbado 

the grass 
To grow by visitations of the dew ? 



194 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



Who said in ancient time to the desert 

pool, 
* Thou shait not wait for angel visitors 
To trouble thy still water ? ' Must we 

bide 
At home ? The lore, beloved, shall fly 

to us 
On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or 

may we breathe 
Without ? O, we shall draw to us the 

air 
That times and mystery feed on. This 

shall lay 
Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the 

world, 
And feel it beating. Rivers shall run 

on. 
Full of sweet language as a lover's 

mouth, 
Delivering of a tune to make her youth 
More beautiful than wheat when it is 

green. 

"What else? — (O, none shall envy 

her!) The rain 
And the wild weather will be most her 

own, 
And talk with her o' nights ; and if the 

winds 
Have seen aught wondrous, they will 

tell it her 
In a mouthful of strange moans, — will 

bring from far, 
Her ears being keen, the lowing and 

the mad, 
Masterful tramping of the bison herds. 
Tearing down headlong with their 

bloodshot eyes, 
In savage rifts of hair ; the crack and 

creak 
Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry 
Of the white bears, all in a dim blue 

world 
Mumbling their meals by twilight ; or 

the rock 
And majesty of motion, when their 

heads 
Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm. 
And hail their nuts down on unweeded 

fields. 
No holidays," quoth she ; " drop, drop, 

O, drop. 
Thou tired skylark, and go up no 

more; 



You lime-trees, cover not your head 

with bees, 
Nor give out your good smell. She 

will not look ; 
No, Gladys cannot draw your sweet- 
ness in. 
For lack of holidays." So Gladys 

thought, 
" A most strange woman, and she talks 

of me." 
With that a girl ran up: "Mother," 

she said, 
" Come out of this brown bight, I pray 

you now, 
It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon 

thought, 
"The mother will not speak to me, 

perhaps 
The daughter may," and asked her 

courteously, 
"What do the fairies smell of ?" But 

the girl 
With peevish pout replied, " You know, 

you know." 
" Not I," said Gladys ; then she an- 
swered her, 
" Something like buttercups. But, 

mother, come, 
And whisper up a porpoise from the 

foam. 
Because I want to ride." 

Full slowly, then, 
The mother rose, and ever kept her 

eyes 
Upon her little child. "You freakish 

maid," 
Said she, "now mark me, if I call you 

one. 
You shall not scold nor make him take 

you far." 

"I only want — you know I only 
want," 

The girl replied — " to go and play 
awhile 

Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she 
turned 

And muttered low, "Mother, is this 
the girl 

Who saw the island?" But the mo- 
ther frowned. 

"When may she go to it?" the 
daughter asked. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



19S 



And Gladys, following them, gave all 
her mind 

To hear the answer. " When she wills 
4 to go ; 

For yonder comes to shore the ferry- 
boat." 

Then Gladys turned to look, and even 
so 

It was ; a ferry-boat, and far away 

Reared in the offing, lo, the purple 
peaks 

Of her loved island. 



Then she raised her arms, 
And ran toward the boat, crying out, 

" O rare, 
Tha island ! fair befall the island ; let 
Me reach the island." And she sprang 

on board. 
And after her stepped in the freakish 

maid 
And the fair mother, brooding o'er her 

child; 
And this one took the helm, and that 

let go 
The sail, and off they flew, and fur- 
rowed up 
A flaky hill before, and left behind 
A sobbing, snake-like tail of creamy 

foam ; 
And dancing hither, thither, sometimes 

shot 
Toward the island ; then, when Gladys 

looked, 
Were leaving it to leeward. And the 

maid 
Whistled a wind to come and rock the 

craft, 
And would be leaning down her head 

to mew 
At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap 
And dandle baby-seals, which, having 

kissed. 
She flung to thejr sleek mothers, till 

her own 
Rebuked her in good English, after 

cried, 
"Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." 

" I will not luff," 
Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are 

cross to me." 
" For shame! " the mother shrieked ; 

"luff, luff, my dear; 



Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have 

the fish 
With the curly tail to ride on." So she 

did. 
And presently, a dolphin bouncing 

up, 
She sprang upon his slippery back, — 

" Farewell," 
She laughed, was off, and all the sea 

grew calm. 



Then Gladys was much happier, and 

was ' ware 
In the smooth weather that this woman 

talked 
Like one in sleep, and murmured cer- 
tain thoughts 
Which seemed to be like echoes of her 

own. 
She nodded, "Yes, the girl is going 

now 
To her own island. Gladys poor ? Not 

she ! 
Who thinks so ? Once I met a man in 

white, 
Who said to me, ' The thing that might 

have been 
Is called, and questioned why it hath 

not been ; 
And can it give good reason, it is set 
Beside the actual, and reckoned in 
To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, 

so 
The possible stands by us ever fresh. 
Fairer than aught which any life hath 

owned, 
And makes divine amends. Now this 

was set 
Apart from kin, and not ordained a 

home ; 
An equal ; — and not suffered to fence 

in 
A little plot of earthly good, and say, 
'Tis mine ; but in bereavement of the 

part, 
O, yet to taste the whole, — to under- 
stand 
The grandeur of the story, not to feel 
Satiate with good possessed, but ever^ 

more 
A healthful hunger for the great idea, 
The beauty and the blessedness of 

life. 



196 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



" Lo, now, the shadow!" quoth she, 

breaking off, 
" We are in the shadow." Then did 

Gladys turn. 
And, O, the mountain with the purple 

peaks 
Was close at hand. It cast a shadow 

out, 
And they were in it : and she saw the 

snow. 
And under that the rocks, and under 

that 
The pines, and then the pasturage ; 

and saw 
Numerous dips, and undulations rare, 
Running down seaward, all astir with 

lithe 
Long canes, and lofty feathers ; for the 

palms 
And spice-trees of the south, nay, every 

growth, 
Meets in that island. 



So that woman ran 
The boat ashore, and Gladys set her 

foot 
Thereon. Then all at once much laugh- 
ter rose ; 
Invisible folks set up exultant shouts, 
" It all belongs to Gladys ; " and she 

ran 
And hid herself among the nearest trees 
And panted, shedding tears. 

So she looked round. 
And saw that she was in a banyan 

grove. 
Full of wild peacocks, — pecking on the 

grass, 
A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, 

and gold, 
Or reaching out their jewelled necks, 

where high 
They sat in rows along the boughs. No 

tree 
Cumbered with creepers let the sun- 
shine through, 
But it was caught in scarlet cups, and 

poured 
From these on amber tufts of bloom, 

and dropped 
Lower on azure stars. The air was 

still, 



As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep. 
And Gladys was the only thing that 

moved. 
Excepting — no, they were not birds — 

what then ? 
Glorified rainbows with a living soul ? 
While they passed through a sunbeam 

they were seen. 
Not otherwhere, but they were present 

yet 
In shade. They were at work, pome- 
granate fruit 
That lay about removing, — purple 

grapes, 
That clustered in the path, clearing 

aside. 
Through a small spot of light would 

pass and go 
The glorious happy mouth and two fair 

eyes 
Of somewhat that made rustlings where 

it went ; 
But when a beam would strike the 

ground sheer down. 
Behold them ! they had wings, and they 

would pass 
One after other with the sheeny fans. 
Bearing them slowly, that their hues 

were seen. 
Tender as russet crimson dropt on 

snows. 
Or where they turned flashing with gold 

and dashed 
With purple glooms. And they had 

feet, but these 
Did barely touch th e ground. And they 

took heed 
Not to disturb the waiting quietness ; 
Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside 

their dams ; 
Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek 

paws laid 
Across her little drowsy cubs; nor 

swans. 
That, floating, slept upon a glassy 

pool ; 
Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the 

reeds, 
With heads beneath their wings. For 

this, you know, 
Was Eden. She was passing through 

the trees 
That made a ring about it, and she 

caught 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



A glimpse of glades beyond. All she 

had seen 
Was nothing to them ; but words are 

> not made 
To tell that tale. No wind was let to 

blow, 
And all the doves were bidden to hold 

their peace. 
Why? One was working in a valley 

near, 
And none might look that way. It was 

luiderstood 
That He had nearly ended that His 

work ; 
For two shapes met, and one to other 

spake, 
Accosting him with, " Prince, what 

worketh He ? " 
Who whispered, "Lo! He fashioneth 

red clay." 
And all at once a little trembling stir 
Was felt in the earth, and every creat- 
ure woke. 
And laid its head down, listening. It 

was known 
Then that the work was done ; the new- 
made king 
Had risen, and set his feet upon his 

realm. 
And it acknowledged him. 

But in her path 

Came some one that withstood her, and 
he said, 

" What doest thou here ? " Then she 
did turn and flee. 

Among those colored spirits, through 
the grove, 

Trembling for haste ; it was not well 
with her 

Till she came forth of those thick ban- 
yan trees, 

And set her feet upon the common 
grass. 

And felt the common wind. 

Yet once beyond. 
She could not choose but cast a back- 
ward glance. 
The lovely matted growth stood like a 

wal'l, 
And means of entering were not evi- 
dent, — 



197 

The gap had closed. But Gladys 
laughed for joy ; 

She said, " Remoteness and a multi- 
tude 

Of years are counted nothing here. 
Behold, 

To-day I have been in Eden. O, it 
blooms 

In my own island." 



And she wandered on. 
Thinking, until she reached a place of 

palms. 
And all the earth was sandy where she 

walked, — 
Sandy and dry, — strewed with papy- 
rus-leaves. 
Old idols, rings and pottery, painted 

lids 
Of mummies (for perhaps it was the 

way 
That leads to dead old Egypt), and 

withal 
Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and 

clear 
The hot prone pillars, and the carven 

plinths, — 
Stone lotos cups, with petals dipped in 

sand, 
And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, 

who sat 
And smiled upon the ruin. O, how 

still! 
Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear 
Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry 

stiff leaves 
Of palm-trees never rustled, and the 

soul 
Of that dead ancientry was itself 

dead. 
She was above her ankles in the sand, 
When she beheld a rocky road, and, 

lo! 
It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels. 
Which erst had carried to their pagan 

prayers 
The brown old Pharaohs ; for the ruts 

led on 
To a great cliff, that either was a cliff 
Or some dread shrine in ruins, — 

partly reared 
In front of that same cliff, and partly 

hewn 



igS 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



Or excavate within its heart. Great 
heaps 

Of sand and stones on either side there 
lay; 

And, as the girl drew on, rose out from 
each, 

As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest. 

Dog-headed, and behind them winged 
things 

Like angels ; and this carven multi- 
tude 

Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky 
road. 

At last, the cliff, — and in the cliff a 
door 

Yawning : and she looked in, as down 
the throat 

Of some stupendous giant, and beheld 

No floor, but wide, worn flights of 
steps, that led 

Into a dimness. When the eyes could 
bear 

That change to gloom, she saw, flight 
after flight. 

Flight after flight, the worn, long stair 
go down, 

Smooth with the feet of nations dead 
and gone. 

So she did enter ; also she went down 

Till it was dark, and yet again went 
down. 

Till, gazing upward at that yawning 
door, 

It seemed no larger, in its height re- 
mote, 

Than a pin's head. But while, irreso- 
lute, 

She doubted of the end, yet farther 
down 

A slender ray of lamplight fell away 

Along the stair, as from a door ajar : 

To this again she felt her way, and 
stepped 

Adown the hollow stair, and reached 
the light ; 

But fear fell on her, fear ; and she for- 
bore 

Entrance, and listened. Ay! 'twas 
even so, — 

A sigh ; the breathing as of one who 
slept 

And was disturbed. So she drew back 
awhile, 



And trembled ; then her doubting 

hand she laid 

Against the door, and pushed it; but 
the light 

Waned, faded, sank ; and as she came 
within — 

Hark, hark! A spirit was it, and 
asleep ? 

A spirit doth not breathe like clay. 
There hung 

A cresset from the roof, and thence ap- 
peared 

A flickering speck of light, and dis- 
appeared ; 

Then dropped along the floor its elfish 
flakes, 

That fell on some one resting, in the 
gloom, — 

Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a 
shape 

That loomed. It was a heifer, aj'-, and 
white. 

Breathing and languid through pro- 
longed repose. 

Was it a heifer? all the marble floor 
Was milk-white also, and the cresset 

paled, 
And straight their whiteness grew con- 
fused and mixed. 

But when the cresset, taking heart, 

bloomed out, — 
The whiteness, — and asleep again! 

but now 
It was a woman, robed, and with a 

face 
Lovely and dim. And Gladys while 

she gazed 
Murmured, " O terrible! I am afraid 
To breathe among these intermittent 

lives, 
That fluctuate in mystic solitude, 
And change and fade. Lo ! where the 

goddess sits 
Dreaming on her dim throne ; a cres- 
cent moon 
She wears upon her forehead. Ah ! 

her frown 
Is mournful, and her slumber is not 

sweet. 
What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold 

breast ? 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



i99 



A baby god with finger on his lips, 
Asleep, and dreaming of departed 

sway? 
Thy son. Hush, hush ; he knoweth 

all the lore 
And sorcery of old Egypt ; but his 

mouth 
He shuts ; the secret shall be lost with 

him, 
He will not tell-" 

The woman coming down! 
"Child, what art doing here?" the 

woman said ; 
*' What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her 

bairn ? ' ' 
{,Ay, ay, -we see thee breathing in thy 

shroud, — 
Thy pretty shroud, all frilled and ftir- 

be lowed. ) 
The air is dim with dust of spiced 

bones. 
I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon 

tier 
Of painted coffers fills it. What if 

we, 
Passing, should slip, and crash into 

their midst, — 
Break the frail ancientry, and smoth- 
ered lie, 
Tumbled among the ribs of queens and 

kings, 
And all the gear they took to bed with 

them! 
Horrible ! let us hence. 

And Gladys said, 
"O, they are rough to mount, those 

stairs;" but she 
Took her and laughed, and up the 

mighty flight 
Shot like a meteor with her. "There," 

said she ; 
"The light is sweet when one has 

smelled of graves, 
Down in unholy heathen gloom ; fare- 
well." 
She pointed to a gateway, strong and 

high, 
Reared of hewn stones ; but, look I in 

lieu of gate, 
There was a glittering cobweb drawn 

across, 



And on the lintel there were writ these 

words : 
" Ho, every one that cometh, I divide 
What hath been from what might be, 

and the line 
Hangeth before thee as a spider's 

web; 
Yet, wouldst thou enter, thou must 

break the line, 
Or else forbear the hill." 

The maiden said, 
"So, cobweb, I will break thee." And 

she passed 
Among some oak-trees on the farther 

side. 
And waded through the bracken round 

their bolls. 
Until she saw the open, and drew on 
Toward the edge o' the wood, where it 

was mixed 
With pines and heathery places wild 

and fresh. 
Here she put up a creature, that ran on 
Before her, crying, "Tint, tint, tint," 

and turned, 
Sat up, and stared at her with elfish 

eyes, 
Jabbenng of gramarye, one Michael 

Scott, 
The wizard that wonned somewhere 

underground, 
With other talk enough to make one 

fear 
To walk in lonely places. After passed 
A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine ; 
He shook his head, "An' if I list to 

tell," 
Quoth he, " I know, but how it mat- 
ters not ; " 
Then crossed himself, and muttered of 

a clap 
Of thunder, and a shape in Amice 

gray, 
But still it mouthed at him, and whim- 
pered, "Tint, 
Tint, tint." "There shall be wild 

work some day soon," 
Quoth he, " thou limb of darkness : he 

will come, 
Thy master, push a hand up, catch 

thee, imp, 
And so good Christians shall have 

peace, perdie." 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



Then Gladys was so frightened, that 
she ran, 

And got away, towards a grassy down, 

Where sheep and lambs were feeding, 
with a boy 

To tend them. 'Twas the boy who 
wears that herb 

Called heart' s-ease in his bosom, and 
he sang 

So sweetly to his flock, that she stole 
on 

Nearer to listen. "O Content, Con- 
tent, 

Give me," sang he, " thy tender com- 
pany. 

I feed my flock among the myrtles ; 
all 

My lambs are twins, and they have laid 
them down 

Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, 
fair love. 

From the other side the river, where 
their harps 

Thou hast been helping them to tune. 
O come. 

And pitch thy tent by mine ; let me 
behold 

Thy mouth, — that even in slumber 
talks of peace, — 

Thy well-set locks, and dove-like coun- 
tenance." 

And Gladys hearkened, couched upon 

the grass, 
Till she had rested ; then did ask the 

boy. 
For it was afternoon, and she was fain 
To reach the shore, " Which is the 

path, I pray, 
That leads one to the water?" But he 

said, 
" Dear lass, I only know the narrow 

way, 
The path that leads one to the golden 

gate 
Across the river." So she wandered 

on; 
And presently her feet grew cool, the 

grass 
Standing so high, and thyme being thick 

and soft. 
The air was full of voices, and the scent 
Of mountain blossom loaded all its 

wafts; 



For she was on the slopes of a goodly 

mount. 
And reared in such a sort that it looked 

down 
Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, 
And richest plains o' the island. It 

was set 
Midway between the snows majestical 
And a wide level, such as men would 

choose 
For growing wheat ; and some one said 

to her, 
" It is the hill Parnassus." So she 

walked 
Yet on its lower slope, and she could 

hear 
The calling of an unseen multitude 
To some upon the mountain, " Give us 

more;" 
And others said, "We are tired of this 

old world : 
Make it look new again." Then there 

were some 
Who answered lovingly — (the dead yet 

speak 
From that high mountain, as the living 

do); 
But others sang desponding, " We hava 

kept 
The vision for a chosen few : we love 
Fit audience better than a rough huzza 
From the unreasoning crowd." 

Then words came up : 
" There was a time, you poets, was a 

time . 
When all the poetry was ours, and 

made 
By some who climbed the mountain 

from our midst. 
We loved it then, we sang it in our 

streets. 
O, it grows obsolete ! Be you as they : 
Our heroes die and drop away from us ; 
Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky 

wing, 
Fair copies wasted to the hungering 

world. 
Save them. We fall so low for lack of 

them. 
That many of us think scorn of honest 

trade, 
And take no pride in our own shops; 

who care 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



Only to quit a calling, will not make 
The calling what it might be : who 

* despise 

Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth 

let the work 
Dull, and degrade them." 

Then did Gladys smile : ' 
" Heroes ! " quoth she ; " yet, now I 

think on it, 
There was the jolly goldsmith, brave 

Sir Hugh, 
Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks 
I see him burnishing of golden gear. 
Tankard and charger, and a-muttering 

low, 

* London is thirsty' — (then he weighs a 

chain) : 
"Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would 

give 
The worth of this, and many such as 

this, 
To bring it water.' 

*' Ay, and after him 
There came up Guy of London, lettered 

son 
O' the honest lighterman. I'll think 

on him, 
Leaning upon the bridge on summer 

eves, 
After his shop was closed: a still, grave 

man. 
With melancholy eyes. ' While these 

are hale,' 
He saith, when he looks down and 

marks the crowd 
Cheerily working; where the river 

marge 
Is blocked with ships and boats ; and 

all the wharves 
Swarm, and the cranes swing in with 

merchandise, — 
'While these are hale, 'tis well, 'tis 

very well. 
But, O good Lord,' saith he, 'when 

these are sick, — 
I fear me. Lord, this excellent work- 
manship 
Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance 

then. 
Ay, ay, my hearties ! many a man of 

you, 



Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, 

shrinks away. 
And, mastered in that fight for lack of 

aid. 
Creeps shivering to a comer, and there 

dies.' 
Well, we have heard the rest. 

" Ah, next I think 
Upon the merchant captain, stout of 

heart 
To dare and to endure. ' Robert, ' saith 

he 
(The navigator Knox to his manful 

son), 
' I sit a captive from the ship detained ; 
This heathenry doth let thee visit her. 
Remember, son, if thou, alas ! shouldst 

fail 
To ransom thy poor father, they are" 

free 
As yet, the mariners ; have wives at 

home. 
As I have ; ay, and liberty is sweet 
To all men. For the ship, she is not 

ours, 
Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on 

the mate 
This my command, to leave me, and set 

sail. 
As for thyself — ' ' Good father,' saith 

the son ; 
* I will not, father, ask your blessing 

now, 
Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate. 
We two shall meet again.' And so they 

did. 
The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon, 
And beatmg nutmeg clusters from the 

tree. 
Ransom and bribe contemned. The 

good ship sailed, — 
The son returned to share his father's 

dbll. 

" O, there are many such. Would I 
had wit 

Their worth to sing! " With that, she 
turned her feet. 

" I am tired now," said Gladys, " of 
their talk 

Around this hill Parnassus." And, be- 
hold, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



A piteous sight, — an old, blind, gray- 
beard king 
Led by a fool with bells. Now this was 

loved 
Of the crowd below the hill ; and when 

he called 
For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his 

age, 
And plained on his unkind daughters, 

they were known 
To say, that if the best of gold and 

gear 
Could have bought him back his king- 
dom, and made kind 
The hard hearts which had broken his 

erevvhile. 
They would have gladly paid it from 

their store. 
Many times over. What is done is 

done. 
No help. The ruined majesty passed 

on. 
And, look you ! one who met her as she 

walked 
Showed her a mountain nymph lovely 

as light. 
Her name CEnone ; and she mourned 

and mourned, 
"O Mother Ida,"' and she could not 

cease. 
No, nor be comforted. 

And after this. 
Soon there came by, arrayed in Nor- 
man cap 
And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, 
Who said, " I pray you, have you 

chanced to meet 
One Gabriel?" and she sighed; but 

Gladys took 
And kissed her hand : she could not 

answer her, 
Because she guessed the end. 

With that it drew 
To evening ; and as Gladys wandered 

on 
In the calm weather, she beheld the 

wave, 
And she ran down to set her feet again 
On the sea-margin, which was covered 

thick 
With white shell-skeletons. The sky 

was red 



As wine. The water played among 

bare ribs 
Of many wrecks, that lay half-buried 

there 
In the sand. She saw a cave, and 

moved thereto 
To ask her way, and one so innocent 
Came out to meet her, that, with mar- 
velling mute. 
She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue 

eyes. 
For in them beamed the untaught 

ecstasy 
Of childhood, that lives on though youth 

be come. 
And love just born. 

She could not choose but name her 

shipwrecked prince, 
All blushing. She told Gladys many 

things 
That are not in the story, — things, in 

sooth, [now 

That Prospero her father knew. But 
'Twas evening, and the sun dropped; 

purple stripes 
In the sea were copied from some 

clouds that lay 
Out in the west. And lo! the boat, 

and more. 
The freakish thing to take fair Gladys 

home 
She mowed at her, but Gladys took the 

helm : 
" Peace, peace ! " she said ; " be good : 

you shall not steer. 
For I am your liege lady." Then she 

sang 
The sweetest song she knew all the 

way home. 

So Gladys set her feet upon the sand ; 
While in the sunset glory died away 
The peaks of that blest island. 

" Fare you well, 
My country, my own kingdom," then 

she said, 
"Till I go visit you again, farewell." 

She looked toward their house with 
whom she dwelt, — 

The carriages were coming. Hasten- 
ing up, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



She was in time to meet them at the 

door, 
And lead the sleepy little ones within ; 
And some were cross and shivered, 

and her dames 
Were weary and right hard to please ; 

but she 
Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed 
With a warm cloak to 'fend her from 

the cold. 
" For, come what >\'ill," she said, "I 

had to-day. 
There is an island." 



THE MORAL. 

What is the moral? Let us think 

awhile. 
Taking the editorial We to help, 
It sounds respectable. 

The moral ; yes, 
We always read, when any fable ends, 
" Hence we may learn." A moral 

must be found. 
What do you think of this: "Hence 

we may learn 
That dolphins swim about the coast of 

Wales, 
And Admiralty maps should- now be 

drawn 
By teacher-girls, because their sight is 

keen, 
/Vnd they can spy out islands." Will 

that do ? 
No, that is far too plain, — too evident. 

Perhaps a general moralizing vein — 

(We know we have a happy knack that 

way. 
'We have observed, moreover, that 
young men 

Are fond of good advice, and so are 
girls ; 

Especially of that meandering kind 

Which, winding on so sweetly, treats 
of all 

Chey ought to be and do and think and 
wear, 

A.3 one may say, from creeds to com- 
forters. 



Indeed, we much prefer that sort our" 

selves. 
So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein : 
That is the thing ; but how to manage 

it? 
" Hence we may learn^'' if we be so 

inclined. 
That life goes best with those who take 

it best ; 
That wit can spin from work a golden 

robe 
To queen it in ; that who can paint at 

will 
A private picture-gallery, should not 

cry 
For shillings that will let him in to 

look 
At some by others painted. Further- 
more, 
Hence we may learn, you poets — {and 

ive co7tnt 
For poets all who ever felt that such 
They were, and all who secretly have 

known 
TJtat such they could be ; ay, more- 
over, all 
Who wind the robes of ideality 
A bout the bareness of their lives, and 

hang 
Comforting curtains, knit of fancy'' s 

yarn, 
Nightly betwixt thein and the frosty 

world), — 
Hence we may learn, you poets, that 

of all 
We should be most content. The 

earth is given 
To us : we reign by virtue of a sense 
Which lets us hear the rhythm of that 

old verse, 
The ring of that old tune whereto she 

spins. 
Humanity is given to us : we reign 
By virtue of a sense which lets us in 
To know its troubles ere they have been 

told. 
And take them home and lull them into 

rest 
With mournfullest music. Time is 

given to us, — 
Time past, time future. Who, good 

sooth, beside 
Have seen it well, have walked this 

empty world 



ao4 



SOJVGS WITH PRELUDES. 



When she went steaming, and from 

pulpy hills 
Have marked the spurting of their 

flamy crowns ? 

Have not we seen the tabernacle 
pitched, 
And peered between the linen curtains, 

blue. 
Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness 

there, 
And, frighted, have not dared to look 

again ? 
But, quaint antiquity ! beheld, we 

thought, 
A chest that might have held the manna 

pot. 
And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we 

leaned 
Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet 
Of CzEsar loomed and neared ; then, 

afterwards, 
We saw fair Venice looking at herself 
In the glass below her, while her Doge 

went forth 
In all his bravery to the wedding. 



This, 
However, counts for nothing to the 

grace 
We wot of in time future : — therefore 

add. 
And afterwards have done : " Hence 

we may learn,'''' 
That though it be a grand and comely 

thing 
To be unhappy — (and we think it is, 
Because so many grand and clever 

folk 
Have found out reasons for unhappi- 

ness, 
And talked about uncomfortable 

things, — 
Low motives, bores, and shams, and 

hollowness, 
The hollowness o' the world, till we at 

last 
Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, 

for fear. 
Being so hollow, it should break some 

day, 
And let us in), — yet, since we are not 

grand, 



O, not at all, and as for cleverness, 
That may be or may not be, — it is well 
For us to be as happy as we can ! 

Agreed ; and with a word to the nobler 

sex. 
As thus : We pray you carry not your 

guns 
On the full cock ; we pray you set your 

pride 
In its proper place, and never be 

ashamed 
Of any honest calling, — let us add. 
And end : For all the rest, hold up your 

heads 
And mind your English. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



WEDLOCK. 

The sun was streaming in : I woke, 

and said, 
"Where is my wife, — that has been 

made my wife 
Only this year ? " The casement stood 

ajar: 
I did but lift my head : The pear-tree 

dropped, 
The great white pear-tree dropped 

with dew from leaves 
And blossom, under heavens of happy 

blue. 

My wife had wakened first, and had 
gone down 

Into the orchard. All the air was 
calm ; 

Audible humming filled it. At the 
roots 

Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps. 

Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like 
hills 

Were tossing down their silver messen- 
gers, 

And two brown foreigners, called cuck- 
oo-birds, 



I 



SOJVGS WITH PRELUDES. 



aos 



Gave them good answer : all things else 

were mute ; 
An idle world lay listening to their talk, 
They had it to themselves, 

What ails my wife ? 
I know not if aught ails her; though 

her step 
Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. 
She moves atween the almond-boughs, 

and bends 
One thick with bloom to look on it. 

"O love ! 
A little while thou hast withdrawn thy- 
self, 
At unaware to think thy thoughts 

alone : 
How sweet, and yet pathetic to my 

heart 
The reason. Ah! thou art no more 

thine own. 
Mine, mine, O love! Tears gather 

'neath my lids, — 
Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty. 
Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty. 
That yet, O love, thou wouldst not 

have again. 
No ; all is right. But who can give, or 

bless. 
Or take a blessing, but there comes 

withal 
Some pain?" 

She walks beside the lily bed. 
And holds apart her gown ; she would 

not hurt 
The leaf-enfolded buds, that have not 

looked 
Yet on the daylight. O, thy locks are 

brown, — 
Fairest of colors ! — and a darker brown 
The beautiful, dear, veiled, modest 

ej'es. 
A bloom as of blush-roses covers her 
Forehead, and throat, and cheek. 

Health breathes with her, 
And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous 

soul! 
To think that thou art mine ! 

My wife came in, 
And moved into the chamber. As for 



I heard, but lay as one that nothing 

hears. 
And feigned to be asleep. 



The racing river leaped and sang 
Full blithely in the perfect weather, 

All round the mountain echoes rang, 
For blue and green were glad to- 
gether. 



This rained out light from every part, 
And that with songs of joy was 
thrilling ; 
But, in the hollow of my heart, 
There ached a place that wanted 
filling. 



Before the road and river meet. 
And stepping-stones are wet and 
glisten, 

I heard a sound of laughter sweet. 
And paused to like it, and to listen. 



IV. 

I heard the chanting waters flow. 
The cushat's note, the bee's low 
humming, — r 
Then turned the hedge, and did not 
know — 
How could I? — that my time was 
coming. 



A girl upon the nigh est stone^ 

Half doubtful of the deed, was stand- 
ing, 
So far the shallow flood had flown 
Beyond the 'customed leap of land- 
ing. 



She knew not any need of me. 
Yet me she waited all unweeting; 

We thought not I had crossed the sea. 
And half the sphere to give her meet- 
ing. 



2o6 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



I waded out, her eyes I met, 

I wished the moments had been 
hours ; 
I took her in my arms, and set 

Her dainty feet among the flowers. 



Her fellow-maids in copse and lane. 
Ah! still, methinks, I hear them 
calling ; 

The wind's soft whisper in the plain. 
The cushat's coo, the water's falling. 



But now it is a year ago, 

•But now possession crowns endeavor ; 
I took her in my heart, to grow 

And fill the hollow place forever. 



REGRET. 

O THAT word Regret ! 

There have been nights and morns 
when we have sighed, 

" Let us alone. Regret ! We are con- 
tent 

To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt 
sleep 

For aye." But it is patient, and it 
wakes ; 

It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep. 

But plaineth on the bed that it is hard. 

We did amiss when we did wish it gone 
And over : sorrows humanize our race ; 
Tears are the showers that fertilize this 

world ; 
And memory of things precious keepeth 

warm 
The heart that once did hold them. 

They are poor 
That have lost nothing; they are 

poorer far 
Who, losing, have forgotten; they 

most poor 
Of all, who lose and wish they might 

forget. 



For life is one, and in its warp and 

woof 
There runs a thread of gold that glitters 

fair. 
And sometimes in the pattern shows 

most sweet 
Where there are sombre colors. It is 

true 
That we have wept. But O! this 

thread of gold. 
We would not have it tarnish ; let us 

turn 
Oft and look back upon the wondrous 

web, 
And when it shineth sometimes we 

shall know 
That memory is possession. 



When I remember something which I 

had, 
But which is gone, and I must do 

without, 
I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, 
Even in cowslip time when hedges 

sprout ; 
It makes me sigh to think on it, — but 

yet 
My days will not be better days, should 

I forget. 

II. 

When I remember something promised 

me. 
But which I never Ijad, nor can have 

now. 
Because the promiser we no more see 
In countries that accord with mortal 

vow ; 
When I remember this, I mourn, — 

but yet 
My happier days are not the days when 

I forget. 



LAMENTATION. 

I READ upon that book. 
Which down the golden gulf doth lei 

us look 
On the sweet days of pastoral majesty ; 

I read upon that book 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



ao7 



JIow, when the Shepherd Prince did 

flee 
(Red Esau's twin), he desolate took 
The stone for a pillow : then he fell on 

sleep. 
And lo ! there was a ladder. Lo ! 

there hung 
A ladder from the star-place, and it 

clung 
To the earth : it tied her so to heaven ; 

and O ! 
There fluttered wings ; 
Then were ascending and descending 

things 
That stepped to him where he lay 

low ; 
Then up the ladder would a-drifting go 
(This feathered brood of heaven), and 

show 
Small as white flakes in winter that are 

blown 
Together, underneath the great white 

throne. 

When I had shut the book, I said : 
** Now, as for me, my dreams upon my 
bed 
Are not like Jacob's dream ; 
Yet I have got it in my life ; yes, I, 
And many more: it doth not us be- 
seem. 
Therefore, to sigh. 
Is there not hung a ladder in our sky? 
Yea; and, moreover, all the way up 

on high 
Is thickly peopled with the prayers of 
men. 
We have no dream ! What then ? 
Like winged wayfarers the height they 

scale 
(By Him that offers them they shall 
prevail) — 
The prayers of men. 
But where is found a prayer for me ; 

How should I pray ? 
My heart is sick, and full of strife. 
I heard one whisper with departing 

breath, 
' Suffer us not, for anv pains of death. 

To fall from Thee.' [life ! 

But O, the pains of life ! the pains of 
There is no comfort now, and naught 
to win. 
But yet, — I will begin." 



'* Preser\^e to me my wealth," I do not 
say. 
For that is wasted away ; 

And much of it was cankered ere it 
went. 

" Preserve to me my health," I cannot 
say. 
For that, upon a day. 

Went after other delights to banish- 
ment. 



What can I pray? " Give me forget- 
f ulness " ? 
No, I would still possess 

Past away smiles, though present 
fronts be stern. 

" Give me again my kindred" ? Nay ; 
not so, 
Not idle prayers. We know 

They that have crossed the river can- 
not return. 



I do not pray, " Comfort me! comfort 
me! " 
For how should comfort be ? 
O — O that cooing mouth, — that little 

white head ! 
No ; but I pray, "If it be not too latfe, 

Open to me the gate. 
That I may find my babe when I am 
dead. 



" Show me the path. I had forgotten 

Thee 
When I was happy and free. 
Walking down here in the gladsome 

light o' the sun ; 
But now I come and mourn ; O set my 

feet 
In the road to Thv blest seat, 
And for the rest, O God, Thy will be 

done." 



DOMINION. 

When found the rose delight in her 

fair hue ? 
Color is nothing to this world ; 'tis I 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



That see it. Farther, I discover soul, 

That trees are nothing to their fellow- 
trees ; 

It is but I that love their stateliness, 

And I that, comforting my heart, do 
sit 

At noon beneath their shadow. I will 
step 

On the ledges of this world, for it is 
mine ; 

But the other world ye wot of shall go 
too ; 

I will carry it in my bosom. O my 
world. 

That was not built with clay ! 

Consider it 
(This outer world we tread on) as a 

harp, — 
A gracious instrument on whose fair 

strings 
We learn those airs we shall be set to 

play 
When mortal hours are ended. Let 

the wings, 
Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind, 
And draw forth melody. Why shouldst 

thou yet 
Lie grovelling ? More is won than e'er 

was lost : 
Inherit. Let thy day be to thy night 
A teller of good tidings. Let thy 

praise 
Go up as birds go up that, when they 

wake. 
Shake off the dew and soar. 

So take Joy home. 
And make a place in thy great heart for 

her. 
And give her time to grow, and cherish 

her ; 
Then will she come, and oft will sing 

to thee. 
When thou art working in the furrows ; 

ay, 
Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. 
It is a comely fashion to be glad, — 
Joy is the grace we say to God. 

Art tired ? 
There is a rest remaining. Hast thou 
sinned ? 



There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head, 
The lovely world, and the over-world 

alike, 
Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede, 
"Thv Father loves thee.'' 



Yon moored mackerel fleet 

Hangs thick as a swarm of bees, 

Or a chistering village street 
Foundationless built on the seas. 



The mariners ply their craft, 
Each set in his castle frail ; 

His care is all for the draught, 
And he dries the rain-beaten sail 



For rain came down in ihe night, 
And thunder nuittered full oft. 

But now the azure is bright, 
And hawks are wheeling aloft. 



I take the land to my breast, 
In her coat with daisies fine ; 

For me are the hills in their best, 
And all that's made is mine. 



Sing high ! " Though the red sun dip. 

There yet is a day for me ; 
Nor youth I count for a ship - 

That long ago foundered at sea. 



*' Did the lost love die and depart? 

Many times since we have met ; 
For I hold the years in my heart. 

And all that was — is yet. 



" I grant to the king his reign ; 

Let us yield him homage due ; 
But over the lands there are twain, 

O king, I must rule as you. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



209 



** I grant to the wise his meed, 
But his yoke I will not brook, 

For God taught me to read, — 
He lent me the world lor a book." 



FRIENDSHIP. 

ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, 
SENT BY HIS WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND. 

Beautiful eyes, — and shall I see no 

more 
The living thought when it would leap 

from them, 
And play in all its sweetness 'neath 

their lids ? 

Here was a man familiar with fair 

heights 
That poets climb. Upon his peace the 

tears 
And troubles of our race deep inroads 

made, 
Yet life was sweet to him ; he kept his 

heart 
At home. Who saw his wife might 

well have thought — • 
" God loves this man. He chose a wife 

for him — 
The true one ! " O sweet eyes, that 

seem to live, 
I know so much of you, tell me the 

rest! 
Eyes full of fatherhood and tender 

care 
For small, young children. Is a mes- 
sage here 
That you would fain have sent, but had 

not time? 
If such there be, I promise, by long 

love 
And perfect friendship, by all trust that 

comes 
Of understanding, that I will not fail, 
No, nor delay to find it. 

O, my heart 
Will often pain me as for some strange 
fault, — 



Some grave defect in nature, — when I 
think 

How I, delighted, 'neath those olive- 
trees, 

Moved to the music of the tideless 
main, 

While, with sore weeping, in an island 
home 

They laid that much-loved head be- 
neath the sod, 

And I did not know. 



I stand on the bridge where last we 
stood 
When delicate leaves were young; 
The children called us from yonder 
wood, 
While a mated blackbird sung. 



Ah, yet you call, — in your gladness 
call, — 

And I hear your pattering feet ; 
It does not matter, matter at all, 

You fatherless children sweet, — 



It does not matter at all to you. 

Young hearts that pleasure besets ; 

The father sleeps, but the world is new, 
The child of his love forgets. 



I too, it may be, before they drop, 
The leaves that flicker to-day, 

Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the 
crop. 
Shall pass from my place away: 



Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, 
Or snow lies soft on the wold, 

Shall shut these eyes on the lovely 
light. 
And leave the story untold. 



WINSTANLEY. 



Shall I tell it there ? Ah, let that be, 
For the warm pulse beats so high ; 

To love to-day, and to breathe and 
see, — 
To-morrow perhaps to die, — 

vii. 

Leave it with God. But this I have 
known, 
That sorrow is over soon ; 
Some in dark nights, sore weeping 
alone. 
Forget by full of the moon. 



But if all loved, as the few can love. 
This world would seldom be well ; 

And who need wish, if he dwells above, 
For a deep, a long death-knell. 



There are four or five, who, passing 
this place, 
While they live will name me yet ; 
And when I am gone will think on my 
face, 
And feel a kind of regret 



WINSTANLEY. 

THE APOLOGY. 

Quoth the cedar to the reeds and 
rushes, 
" Water-grass, you know not what 
I do ; 
Know not of my storjns, nor of jny 
hushes, 
A nd — / k7iow not you P 

Quoth the reeds and rushes, *' Wind! 
O waken ! 
Breathe, O wind, and set our an- 
swer free. 
For we have no voice, of you forsaken, 
For the cedar-tree.^ ' 



Qtioth the earth at midnight to the 

ocean, 
" Wilderness of water, lost to view, 
Naught you are to nte but sounds oj 
motion ; 
I am fuiught to youP 

Quoth the ocean, " Dawa ! O fairest, 
clearest. 
Touch 7}ie with thy golden fngers 
bland ; 
For I have no smile till thou appearest 
For the lovely land.'''' 

Quoth the hero dying, wJielmed in 
glory, 
^^ Ma?iy blame me, feiv have under- 
stood ; 
Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story, — 
Make its meaning good?^ 

Quoth the folk, " Sing, poet ! teach us, 
prove us ; 
Surely we shall learn the meanitig 
then ; 
Wound us with a pain divine, O 
move us. 
For this man of men P 



WiNSTANLEv's deed, you kindly folk, 

With it I fill my lay. 
And a nobler man ne'er walked the 
world, 

Let his name be what it may. 

The good ship "Snowdrop" tarried 
long, 
Up at the vane locked he ; 
"Belike," he said, for the wind had 
dropped, 
" She lieth becalmed at sea." 

The lovely ladies flocked within, 
And still would each one say, 

" Good mercer, be the ships come up ?" 
But still he answered, " Nay." 



Then stepped two mariners down the 
street. 

With looks of grief and fear • 
" Now, if VVinstanley be your nam 

We bring you evil cheer ! 






WINSTANLEY. 



** For the good ship * Snowdrop ' struck, 
■ — she struck 
On the rock, —the Eddystone, 
And down she went with threescore 
men, 
We two being left alone. 

" Down in the deep, with freight and 
crew, 

Past any help she lies, 
And never a bale has come to shore 

Of all thy merchandise." 

" For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," 
Winstanley said, and sighed, 

*' For velvet coif, or costly coat, 
They fathoms deep may bide. 

"0 thou brave skipper, blithe and 
kind, 

O mariners, bold and true, 
Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours and you. 



" Many long days Winstanley's breast 

Shall feel a weight within. 
For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared 

And trading count but sin. 

" To him no more it shall be joy 

To pace the cheerful town. 
And see the lovely ladies gay 

Step on in velvet gown." 

The "Snowdrop" sank at Lammas 
tide. 

All under the yeasty spray ; 
On Christmas Eve the brig " Content" 

Was also cast away. 

He little thought o' New Year's night. 

So jolly as he sat then. 
While drank the toast and praised the 
roast 

The round-faced Aldermen, — 



While serving-lads ran to and fro, 

Pouring the ruby wine, 
And jellies trembled on the board, 

And towering pasties fine, — 



While loud huzzas ran up the roof 
Till the lamps did rock o'erhead. 

And holly-boughs from rafters hung 
Dropped down their berries red, — 

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 

With every rising tide, 
How the wave washed in his sailor 
lads. 

And laid them side by side. 

There stepped a stranger to the board : 
" Now, stranger, who be ye?" 

He looked to right, he looked to left. 
And " Rest you merry," quoth he ; 

" For you did not see the brig go down, 
Or ever a storm had blown ; 

For you did not see the white wave 
rear 
At the rock, — the Eddystone. 

" She drave at the rock with sternsails 
set ; 
Crash went the masts in twain ; 
She staggered back with her mortal 
blow, 
Then leaped at it again. 

"There rose a great cry, bitter and 
strong, ■ 
The misty moon looked out! 
And the water swarmed with seamen's 
heads. 
And the wreck was strewed about. 

" I saw her mainsail lash the sea 
As I clung to the rock alone ; 

Then she heeled over, and down she 
went, 
And sank like any stone. 

" She was a fair ship, but all's one ! 

For naught could bide the shock." 
" I will take horse," Winstanley said, 

"And see this deadly rock ; 

" For never again shall bark o'mine 

Sail over the windy sea, 
Unless, by the blessing of God, for this 

Be found a remedy." 



WINSTANLEY. 



Winstanley rode to PlyTtiouth town 
All in the sleet and the snow, 

And he looked around on shore and 
sound 
As he stood on Plymouth Hoe, 

Till a pillar of spray rose far away, 
And shot up its stately head, 

Reared and fell over, and reared again : 
'"Tis the rockJ the rock!" he said. 

Straight to the Mayor he took his way, 
"Good Master Mayor," quoth he, 

*' I am a mercer of London town, 
And owner of vessels three, — 

"But for your rock of dark renown, 
I had five to track the main." 

*' You are one of many," the old Mayor 
said, 
"That on the rock complain. 

*' An ill rock, mercer ! your words ring 
right. 

Well with my thoughts they chime. 
For my two sons to the world to come 

It sent before their time." 



"Lend me a lighter, good Master 
Mayor, 

And a score of shipwrights free, 
For I think to raise a lantern tower 

On this rock o' destiny." 

The old Mayor laughed, but sighed 
also ; 

"Ah, youth," quoth he, "is rash; 
Sooner, young man, thou' It root it out 

From the sea that doth it lash. 



" Who sails too near its jagged teeth. 

He shall have evil lot ; 
For the calmest seas that tumble there 

Froth like a boiling pot. 

•*And the heavier seas few look on 
nigh, 
But straight they lay him dead ; 
A seventy-gun-ship, sir! — they'll 
shoot 
Higher than her mast-head. 



" O, beacons sighted in the dark, 

They are right welcome things, 
And pitchpots flaming on the shore 
Show fair as angel wings. 

"Hast gold in hand? then light th« 
land. 

It 'longs to thee and me ; 
But let alone the deadly rock 

In God Almighty's sea." 

Yet said he, " Nay, — I must away, 

On the rock to set my feet ; 
My debts are paid, my will I made, 

Or ever I did thee greet. 

" If I must die, then let me die 
By the rock and not elsewhere; 

If I may live, O let me live 

To mount my lighthouse stair." 

The old Mayor looked him in the face, 
And answered : " Have thy way ; 

Thy heart is stout, as if round about 
It was braced with an iron stay : 

"Have thy will, mercer! choose thy 
men. 

Put off from the storm-rid shore ; 
God with thee be, or I shall see 

Thy face and theirs no more." 

Heavily plunged the breaking wave, 

And foam flew up the lea. 
Morning and even the drifted snow 

Fell into the dark gray sea. 

Winstanley chose him men and ge ff • 
He said, " My time 1 waste," 

For the seas ran seething up the shore, 
And the wrack drave on in haste. 

But twenty days he waited and more, 

Pacing the strand alone, 
Or ever he set his manly foot 

On the rock, — the Eddystone. 

Then he and the sea began their strife^ 
And worked with power and might 

Whatever the man reared up by day 
The sea broke down by night. 



WINSTANLEY. 



2 IS 



He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, 

He sailed to shore at flow ; 
And at his side, by that same tide, 

Came bar and beam also. 

*' Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, 
" Or thou wilt rue the day." 

"Yonder he goes," the townsfolk 
sighed, 
" But the rock will have its way. 

" For all his looks that are so stout, 
And his speeches brave and fair. 

He may wait on the wind, wait on the 
wave. 
But he'll build no lighthouse there." 

In fine weather and foul weather 

The rock his arts did flout, 
Through the long days and the short 
days, 

Till all that year ran out. 



With fine weather and foul weather 

Another year came in : 
" To take his wage," the workmen said, 

" We almost count a sin." 



Now March was gone, came April in, 
And a sea-fog settled down. 

And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, 
He sailed from Plymouth town. 

With men and stores he put to sea, 

As he was wont to do ; 
They showed in the fog like ghosts full 
faint, — 

A ghostly craft and crew. 

And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway, 
For a long eight days and more ; 

" God help our men," quoth the women 
then ; 
" For they bide long from shore." 

They paced the Hoe in doubt and 
dread : 

"Where may our mariners be ?" 
But the brooding fog lay soft as down 

Over the quiet sea. 



A Scottish schooner made the port, 

The thirteenth day at e'en : 
"As I am a man," the captain cried, 
" A strange sight I have seen : 

"And a strangeTSound heard, my mas- 
ters all, 
At sea, in the fog and the rain, 
Like shipwrights' hammers tapping 
low, 
Then loud, then low again. 

"And a stately house one instant 
showed. 

Through a rift, on the vessel's lee ; 
What manner of creatures may be those 

That build upon the sea ? " 

Then sighed the folk, "The Lord be 
praised ! " 

And they flocked to the shore amain ; 
All over the Hoe, that livelong night. 

Many stood out in the rain. 

It ceased, and the red sun reared his 
head. 

And the rolling fog did flee ; 
And, lo ! in the offing faint and far 

Winstanley's house at sea ! 



In fair weather with mirth and cheer 

The stately tower uprose ; 
In foul weather, with hunger and cold, 

They were content to close ; 

Till up the stair Winstanley went. 

To fire the wick afar ; 
And Plj'mouth in the silent night 

Looked out, and saw her star. 



Winstanley set his foot ashore : 
Said he, " My work is done ; 

I hold it strong to last as long 
As aught beneath the sun. 

" But if it fail, as fail it may, 

Borne down with ruin and rout. 

Another than I shall rear it high. 
And brace the girders stout. 



214 



WINSTANLEY. 



" A better than I shall rear it high, 

For now the way is plain, 
And though I were dead," Winstanley 
said, 

" The light would shine again. 

*' Yet, were I fain still to remain, 
Watch in my tower to keep, 

And tend my light in the stormiest 
night 
That ever did move the deep ; 



"And if it stood, why, then 'twere 
good, 
Amid their tremulous stirs, 
To count each stroke, when the mad 
waves broke, 
For cheers of mariners. 



" But if it fell, then this were well, 

That I should with it fall ; 
Since, for my part, I have built my 
heart 

In the courses of its wall. 



" Ay ! I were fain, long to remain, 
Watch in my tower to keep, 

And tend my light in the stormiest 
night 
That ever did move the deep." 

With that Winstanley went his way, 

And left the rock renowned, 
And summer and winter his pilot star 
^ Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 



But it fell out, fell out at last, 

That he would put to sea, 
To scan once more his lighthouse tower 

On the rock o' destiny. 

And the winds broke, and the storm 
broke, 

And wrecks came plunging in ; 
None in the town that night lay down 

Or sleep or rest to win. 

The great mad waves were rolling 
graves. 

And each flung up its dead ; 
The seething flow was white below, 

And black the sky o'erhead. 



And when the dawn, the dull, gray 
dawn, 
Broke on the trembling town. 
And men looked south to the harbor 
mouth. 
The lighthouse tower was down, — 



Down in the deep where he doth sleep 

Who made it shine afar. 
And then in the night that drowned its 
light, 

Set, with his pilot star. 

Many fair tombs in the glorioui 
glooms 
At Westminster they show, 
T/ie brave and the great lie th4re in 
state : 
Winstatdey lieth low. 



THE 



MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, 

AND 

rOEMS OF LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. 



THE 



MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE 

UNSEEN. 

There are who give themselves to 

work for men, — 
To raise the lost, to gather orphaned 

babes 
And teach them, pitying of their mean 

estate, 
To feel for misery,, and to look on 

crime 
With ruth, till they forget that they 

themselves 
Are of the race, themselves among the 

crowd 
Under the sentence and outside the 

fate, 
the family and in the doom. 
Cold is the world ; they feel how cold 

it is. 
And wish that they could warm it. 

Hard is life 
For some They would that they could 

soften it ; 
And, in the doing of their work, they 

sigh 
As if it was their choice and not their 

lot ; 
And, in the raising of their prayer to 

God, 
They crave His kindness for the world 

He made, 
Till they, at last, forget that He, not 

they. 
Is the true lover of man. 



Now, in an ancient town, that had 
sunk low, — 

Trade having drifted from it, while 
there stayed 

Too many, that it erst had fed, be- 
hind, — 

There walked a curate once, at early 
day. 

It was the summer-time ; but summer 

air 
Came never, in its sweetness, down that 

dark 
And crowded alley, — never reached 

' the door 
Whereat he stopped, — the sordid, 

shattered door. 

He paused, and, looking right and left, 
beheld 

Dirt and decay, the lowering tenements 

That leaned toward each other; bro- 
ken panes 

Bulging with rags, and grim with old 
neglect ; 

And reeking hills of formless refuse, 
heaped 

To fade and fester in a stagnant air. 

But he thought nothing of it : he had 
learned 

To take all wretchedness for granted, — 
he. 

Reared in a stainless home, and radi- 
ant yet 

With the clear hues of healthful Eng- 
lish youth, 



2l8 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



Had learned to kneel by beds forlorn, 

and stoop 
Under foul lintels. He could touch, 

with hand 
Unshrinking, fevered fingers ; he could 

hear 
The language of the lost, in haunt and 

den, — 
So dismal, that the coldest passer-by 
Must needs be sorry for them, and, 

albeit 
They cursed, would dare to speak no 

harder words 
Than these, — *' God help them ! " 

Ay ! a learned man 
The curate in all woes that plague man- 
kind, — 
Too learned, for he was but young. 

His heart 
Had yearned till it was overstrained, 

and now 
He — plunged into a narrow slough 

unblest. 
Had struggled with its deadly waters, 

till 
His own head had gone under, and he 

took 
Small joy in work he could not look to 

aid 
Its cleansing. 

Yet, by one right tender tie, 
Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse 

and dull, 
Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls 

profane. 
His soul drew back from. He had 

worked for them, — 
Work without joy : but, in his heart of 

hearts, 
He loved the little children ; and, 

whene'er 
He heard their prattle innocent, and 

heard 
Their tender voices lisping sacred 

words 
That he had taught them, — in the 

cleanly calm 
Of decent school, by decent matron 

held, — 
Then would he say, " I shall have 

pleasure yet, 
In these." 



But now, when he pushed back that 

door. 
And mounted up a flight of ruined 

stairs, 
He said not that. He said, "Oh! 

once I thought 
The little children would make bright 

for me 
The crown they wear who have won 

many souls 
For righteousness; but oh, this evil 

place ! 
Hard lines it gives them, cold and dirt 

abhorred, — 
Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love, 
And blows instead of care. 

And so they die, 
The little children that I love, — they 

die, — 
They turn their wistful faces to the 

wall. 
And slip away to God." 

With that, his hand 
He laid upon a latch and lifted it, 
Looked in full quietly, and entered 
straight. 

What saw he there ? He saw a three- 
years child, 

That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw 

Swept up into a corner. O'er its brow 

The damps of death were gathering: 
all alone, 

Uncared for, save that by its side was 
set 

A cup, it waited. And the eyes had 
ceased 

To look on things at hand. He thought 
they gazed 

In wistful wonder, or some faint sur- 
mise 

Of coming change, — as though they 
saw the gate 

Of that fair land that seems to most of 
us 

Very far off. 

When he beheld the look, 
He said, " I knew, I knew how this 

would be ! 
Another! Ay, and but for drunken 

blows 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



219 



And dull forgetfulness of infant need, 

This little one had lived." And there- 
upon 

The misery of it wrought upon him so, 

That, unaware, he wept. Oh ! then it 
was 

That, in the bending of his manly 
head, 

It came between the child and that 
whereon 

He gazed, and, when the curate glanced 
again. 

Those dying eyes, drawn back to earth 
once more, 

Looked up into his own, and smiled. 

He drew 
More near, and kneeled beside the 

small Trail thing, 
Because the lips were moving ; and it 

raised 
Its baby hand, and stroked away his 

tears, 
And whispered, "Master! master!" 

and so died. 

Now, in that town there was an ancient 

church, 
A minster of old days which these had 

turned * 

To parish uses : there the curat.e served. 
It stood within a quiet swarded Close, 
Sunny and still, and, though it was not 

far 
From those dark courts where poor 

humanity 
Struggled and swarmed, it seemed to 

wear its own 
Still atmosphere about it, and to hold . 
That old-world calm within its pre- 
cincts pure 
And that grave rest which modern life 

foregoes. 

When the sad curate, rising from his 
knees. 

Looked from the dead to heaven,— 
as, unaware, 

Men do when they would track de- 
parted life, — 

He heard the deep tone of the minster- 
bell 

Sounding for service, and he turned 
away 



So heavy' at heart, that, when he left 

behind 
That dismal habitation, and came out 
In the clear sunshine of the minster- 
yard. 
He never marked it. Up the aisle he 

moved. 
With his own gloom about him ; then 

came forth. 
And read before the folk grand words 

and calm, — 
Words full of hope ; but into his dull 

heart 
Hope came not. As one talketh in a 

dream. 
And doth not mark the sense of his 

own words. 
He read ; and, as one walketh in a 

dream. 
He after walked toward the vestment- 
room, 
And never marked the way he went by, 

— no, 
Nor the gray verger that before him 

stood. 
The great church-keys depending from 

his hand, 
Ready to follow him out and lock the 

door. 

At length, aroused to present things, 

but not 
Content to break the sequence of his 

thought. 
Nor ready for the working day that 

held 
Its busy course without, he said, 

" (3ood friend, 
Leave me the keys: I would remain 

awhile." 
And, when the verger gave, he moved 

with him 
Toward the door distraught, then shut 

him out. 
And locked himself within the church 

alone. 
The minster-church was like a grea 

brown cave. 
Fluted and fine with pillars, and all 

dim 
With glorious gloom ; but, as the 

curate turned. 
Suddenly shone the sun, — and roof 

and walls. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



Also the clustering shafts from end to 
end, 

Were thickly sown all over, as it were, 

With seedling rainbows. And it went 
and came 

And ' went, that sunny beam, and 
drifted up 

Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings 

And carven cheeks of dimpled cheru- 
bim, 

And dropped upon the curate as he 
passed, 

And covered his white raiment and his 
hair. 

Then did look down upon him from 
their place. 

High in the upper lights, grave mitred 
priests, 

And grand old monarchs in their 
flowered gowns 

And capes of miniver ; and therewithal 

(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked 
sun 

Smote with his burning splendor all 
the pile, 

And in there rushed, through half- 
translucent panes, 

A sombre glory as of rusted gold. 

Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and 
green, 

That made the floor a beauty and de- 
light. 

Strewed as with phantom blossoms, 
sweet enough 

To have been wafted there the day 
they dropt 

On the flower-beds in heaven. 

The curate passed 
Adown the long south aisle, and did 

not think 
Upon this beauty, nor that he him- 
self — 
Excellent in the strength of youth, and 

fair 
With all the majesty that noble work 
And stainless manners give — did add 

his part 
To make it fairer. 

In among the knights 
That lay with hands uplifted, by the 
lute 



And palm of many a saint, — 'neadi 

capitals 
Whereon our fathers had been bold to 

carve 

With earthly tools their ancient child- 
like dream 
Concerning heavenly fruit and living 

bowers. 
And glad full-throated birds that sing 

up there 
Among the branches of the tree of 

life, — 
Through all the ordered forest of the 

shafts. 
Shooting on high to enter into light, 
That swam aloft, — he took his sileol 

way, 
And in the southern transept sat hull 

down. 
Covered his face, and thought. 



He said, " No pain, 
No passion, and no aching, heart o' 

mine. 
Doth stir within thee. Oh ! I would 

there did : 
Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost 
I know not what. I see the heavens 

as lead : 
They tend no whither. Ah ! the 

world is bared 
Of her enchantment now: she is but 

earth 
And water. And, though much hath 

passed away. 
There may be more to go. I may for- 
get 
The joy and fear that have been: 

there may live 
No more for me the fervency of hope 
Nor the arrest of wonder. 

" Once I said, 
'Content will wait on work, though 

work appear 
Unfruitful.' Now I say, 'Where is 

the good? 
What is the good?' A lamp when it 

Is lit 
Must needs give light ; but I am like a 

man 
Holding his lamp in some deserted 

place 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



32 1 



Where no foot passeth. Must I trim 

my lamp, 
And ever painfully toil to keep It bright, 
When use for it is none ? I must ; I 

will. 
Though God withhold my wages, I 

must work, 
And watch the bringing of my work to 

nought, — » 
Weed in the vineyard through the heat 

o' the day. 
And, overtasked, behold the weedy 

place 
Grow ranker yet in spite of me. 

•'Oh! yet 
My meditated words are trodden down 
Like a little wayside grass. Castaway 

shells. 
Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging 

wave. 
Have no more force against it than 

have I 
Against the sweeping, weltering wave 

of life. 
That, lifting and dislodging me, drives 

on, 
And notes not mine endeavor." 

Afterward, 
He added more words like to these ; to 

wit. 
That it was hard to see the world so 

He would that it were happier. It was 

hard 
To see the blameless overborne ; and 

hard 
To know that God, who loves the world, 

should yet 
Let It lie down in sorrow, when a smile 
From Him would make it laugh and 

sing, —a word 
From Him transform It to a heaven. 

He said. 
Moreover, "When will this be done? 

My life 
Hath not yet reached the noon, and I 

am tired ; 
And oh ! it may be that, uncomforted 
By foolish hope of doing good and vain 
Conceit of being useful, I may live, 
And it may be my duty to go on 



Working for years and years, for years 

and years." 
But, while the words were uttered, in' 

his heart 
There dawned a vague alarm. He was 

aware 
That somewhat touched him, and he 

lifted up 
His face. " I am alone," the curate 

said, — 
"I think I am alone. What is it, 

then ? 
I am ashamed! My raiment is not 

clean. 
My lips, — I am afraid they are not 

clean. 
My heart is darkened and unclean. 

Ah me. 
To be a man, and yet to tremble so ! 
Strange, strange!" 

And there was sitting at his feet — 
He could not see it plainly — at his 

feet 
A very little child. And; while the 

blood 
Drave to his heart, he set his eye on It, 
Gazing, and, lo! the ^ loveliness from 

heaven 
Took clearer form and color. He be- 
held 
The strange, wise sweetness of a dim- 
pled mouth, — 
The deep serene of eyes at home with 

bliss, _ 
And perfect in possession. So it spoke, 
" My master! " but he answered not a 

word ; 
And it went on: "I had a name, a 

name. 
He knew my name ; but here they can 

forget." 
The curate answered : " Nay, I know 

thee well. « 

I love thee. Wherefore art thou 

come?" It said, 
"Thev sent me;" and he faltered, 

'" Fold thy hand, 
O most dear little one ! for on it gleams 
A gem that Is so bright I cannot look 
Thereon." It said, "When I did 

leave this world, 
That was a tear. But that was long 

ago; 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



For I have lived among the happy folk, 
You wot of, ages, ages." Then said 

he, 
" Do they forget us, while beneath the 

palms 
They take their mfinite leisure ? " And, 

with eyes 
That seemed to muse upon him, look- 
ing up 
In peace the little child made answer, 

"Nay;" 
And murmured, in the language that he 

loved, 
"How is it that his hair is not yet 

white ; 
For I and all the others have been long 
Waiting for him to come." 

" And was it long? " 
The curate answered, pondering. 

" Time being done, 
Shall life indeed expand, and give the 

sense, 
In our to-come, of infinite extension ? " 
Then said the child, " In heaven we 

children talk 
Of the great matters, and our lips are 

wise ; 
But here I can but talk with thee in 

words 
That here I knew." And therewithal, 

arisen. 
It said, " I pray you take me in your 

arms." 
Then, being afraid but willing, so he 

did; 
And partly drew about the radiant 

child. 
For better covering its dread purity, 
The foldings of his gown. And he be- 
held 
Its beauty, and the tremulous woven 

light 
That hung upon its hair ; withal, the 

robe, 
* Whiter than fuller of this world can 

white,' 
That clothed its immortality. And so 
The trembling came again, and he was 

dumb, 
Repenting his uncleanness : and he 

lift 
His eyes, and all the holy place was 

full 



Of living things ; and some were faint 

and dim, 
As if they bore an intermittent life. 
Waxing and waning ; and they had no 

form. 
But drifted on like slowly trailed clouds, 
Or moving spots of darkness, with an 

eye 
Apiece. And some, in guise of evil 

birds. 
Came by in troops, and stretched their 

naked necks, 
And some were men-like, but their 

heads hung down ; 1 

And he said, " O my God ! let me find 

grace 
Not to behold their faces, for I know 
They must be wicked and right terri- 
ble." 
But while he prayed, lo ! whispers ; and 

there moved 
Two shadows on the wall. He could 

not see 
The forms of them that cast them : ho 

could see 
Only the shadows as of two that sat 
Upon the floor, where, clad in women's 

weeds, 
They lisped together. And he shud-. 

dered much : 
There was a rustling near him, and he 

feared 
Lest they should touch him, and he feel 

their touch. 

" It is not great," quoth one, " the 

work achieved. 
We do, and we delight to do, iur 

best: 
But that is little ; for, my dear," qi.oth 

she, 
"This tower and town have bee" in- 
fested long 
With angels." — " Ay," the other made 

reply, 
" I had a little evil one, of late, 
That I picked up as it was crawling 

out 
O' the pit, and took and cherished in 

my breast. 
It would divine for me, and oft would 

moan, 
* Pray thee, no churches,' and it snake 

of this. 



a 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



223 



But i was harried once, — thou know'st 

by whom, — 
And fled in here ; and, when he fol- 
lowed me, 
I crouching by this pillar, he let 

down 
His hand, — being all too proud to send 

his eyes 
In its wake, — and, plucking forth my 

tender imp. 
Flung it behind him. It went yelping 

forth ; " - 

And, as for me, I never saw it more. 
Much is against us, — very much : the 

times 
Are hard." She paused: her fellow 

took the word, 
Plaining on such as preach and them 

that plead. 
*' Even such as haunt the yawning 

mouths of hell," 
Quoth she, " and pluck them back that 

run thereto." 
Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on 

him 
The utterance of his name. " There is 

no soul 
That I loathe more, and oftener curse. 

Woe's me, 
That cursing should be vain I Ay, he 

will go 
Gather the sucking children, thgit are 

yet 
Too young for us, and watch and shel- 
ter them 
Till the strong Angels — pitiless and 

stern. 
But to them loving ever — sweep them 

in. 
By armsful, to the unapproachable fold. 



" We strew his path with gold : it will 
not lie. 

'Deal softly with him,' was the mas- 
ter's word. 

We brought him all delights : his angel 
came 

And stood between them and his eyes. 
They spend 

Much pains upon him, — keep him 
poor and low 

And unbeloved ; and thus he gives his 
mind 



To fill the fateful, the impregnable 
Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed 
of stars. 

" Oh ! hard is serving against love, — 
the love 

Of the Unspeakable ; for if we soil 

The souls He openeth out a washing- 
place ; 

And if we grudge, and snatch away the 
bread. 

Then will He save by poverty, and 
gain 

By early giving up of blameless life *, 

And if we shed out gold. He even will 
save 

In spite of gold, — of twice-refined 
gold." 

With that the curate set his daunted 

eyes 
To look upon the shadows of the fiends. 
He was made sure they could not see 

the child 
That nestled in his arms ; he also knew 
They were unconscious that his mortal 

ears 
Had new intelligence, which gave their 

speech 
Possible entrance through his garb of 

clay. 

He was afraid, yet awful gladness 

reached 
His soul : the testimony of the lost 
Upbraided him ; but while he trembled 

yet, 
The heavenly child had lifted up its 

head 
And left his arms, and on the marble 

floor 
Stood beckoning. 

And, its touch withdrawn, the place 
Was silent, empty; all that swarming 

tribe 
Of evil ones concealed behind the veil, 
And shut into their separate world, 

were closed 
From his observance. He arose, and 

paced 
After the little child, — as half In fear 
That it would leave him, — till they 

reached a door; 



*24 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



And then said he, — but much dis- 
traught he spoke, 
Laying his hand across the lock, — 

"This door 
Shuts in the stairs whereby men mount 

the tower. 
Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw 

to heaven ? " 
It answered, " I will mount them." 

Then said he, 
" And I will follow." — " So thou shalt 

do well," 
The radiant thing replied, and it went 

up. 
And he, amazed, went after ; for the 

stairs, 
Otherwhile dark, were lightened by the 

rays 
Shed out of raiment woven in high 

heaven. 
And hair whereon had smiled the light 

of God. 

With that, they, pacing on, came out 

at last 
Into a dim, weird place, — a chamber 

formed 
Betwixt the roofs ; for you shall know 

that all 
The vauking of the nave, fretted and 

fine, 
Was covered with the dust of ages, 

laid 
Thick with those chips of stone which 

they had left 
Who wrought it ; but a high-pitched 

roof was reared 
Above it, and the western gable pierced 
With three long narrow lights. Great 

tie-beams loomed 
Across, and many daws frequented 

there, 
The starling and the sparrow littered 

it 
With straw, and peeped from many a 

shady nook; 
And there was lifting up of wings, and 

there 
Was hasty exit when the curate came. 
But sitting on a beam and moving not 
For him, he saw two fair gray turtle- 
doves 
Bowing their heads, and cooing; and 

the child 



Put forth a hand to touch his own, but 

straight 
He, startled, drew it back, because, 

forsooth, 
A stirring fancy smote him, and he 

thought 
That language trembled on their inno- 
cent tongues. 
And floated forth in speech that man 

could hear. 
Then said the child, "Yet touch, my 

master dear." 
And he let down his hand, and touched 

again ; 
And so it was. " But if they had their 

way," 
One turtle cooed, "how should this 

world go on?" 

Then he looked well upon them, as he 
stood 

Upright before them. They were 
feathered doves. 

And sitting close together; and their 
eyes 

Were rounded with the rim that marks 
their kind. 

Their tender crimson feet did pat the 
beam, — 

No phantoms they ; and soon the fel- 
low-dove 

Made answer, " Nay, they count them- 
selves so wise, 

There is no task they shall be set to do 

But they will ask God why. What 
mean they so? 

The glory is not in the task, but in 

The doing it for Him. What should 
he think. 

Brother, this man that must, forsooth, 
be set 

Such noble work, and suffered to be- 
hold 

Its fruit, if he knew more of us and 
ours ? ' ' 

With that the other leaned, as if attent : 

" I am not perfect, brother, in his 
thought." 

The mystic bird replied, " Brother, he 
saith, 

' But it is nought : the work is over- 
hard.' 

Whose fault is that? God sets not 
overwork. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



aaS 



He saith the world is sorrowful, and he 

Is therefore sorrowful. He cannot 
set 

The crooked straight ; — but who de- 
mands of him, 

O brother, that he should? What! 
thinks he, then. 

His work is God's advantage, and his 
will 

More bent to aid the world than its 
dread Lord's. 

Nay, yet there live amongst us legions 
fair, 

Millions on millions, who could do 
right well 

What he must fail in ; and 'twas whis- 
pered me, 

That chiefly for himself the task is 
given, — 

His little daily task." With that he 
paused. 

Then said the other, preening its fair 

wing, 
"Men have discovered all God's is- 
lands now. 
And given them names ; whereof they 

are as j^roud, 
And diiem themselves as great, as if 

their hands 
Had made them. Strange is man, 

and strange his pride. " 
Now, as for us, it matters not to learn 
What and from whence we be: How 

should we tell ? 
Our world is undiscovered in these 

skies. 
Our names not whispered- Yet, for 

us and ours, 
What joy it is, — permission to come 

down. 
Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their 

God, 
To guide, but to their goal the winged 

fowls. 
His lovely lower-fashioned lives to 

help 
To take their forms by legions, fly, and 

draw 
With us the sweet, obedient, flocking 

things 
That ever hear our message reverently, 
And follow us far. How should they 

know their way, 



Forsooth, alone? Men say they fly 

alone ; 
Yet some have set on record, and 

averred. 
That they, among the flocks, had duly 

marked 
A leader." 

Then his fellow made reply : 
" They might divine the Maker's heart. 

Come forth, . 
Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide 

their wings. 
For Him that loveth them." 

With that, the child 
Withdrew his hand, and all their 

speech was done. 
He moved toward them, but they 

fluttered forth 
And fled into the sunshine. 

" I would fain," 

Said he, "have heard some more. 
And wilt thou go?" 

He added to the child, for this had 
turned. 

"Ay," quoth he, gently, "to the beg- 
gar's place; 

For I would see tlie beggar in the 
porch." 

So they went down together to the 
door. 

Which, when the curate opened, lo! 
without 

The beggar sat ; and he saluted him : 

" Good morrow, master." " Where- 
fore art thou here?" 

The curate asked: "it is not service- 
time. 

And none will enter now to give thee 
alms." 

Then said the beggar, " I have hope 
at heart 

That I shall go to my poor house no 
more." 

" Art thou so sick that thou dost think 
to die?" 

The curate said. With that the beggar 
laughed. 

And under his dim eyelids gathered 
tears, 



236 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



And he was all a-tremble with a strange 
And moving exaltation. "Ay," quoth 

he, 
And set his face toward high heaven : 

" I think 
The blessing that I wait on must be 

near. " 
Then said the curate, " God be good to 

thee." 
And, straight, the little child put "forth 

his hand. 
And touched him. " Master, master, 

hush! 
You should not, master, speak so care- 
lessly 
In this great presence." 

But the touch so wrought, 
That, lo ! the dazzled curate staggered 

back. 
For dread effulgence from the beggar's 

eyes 
Smote him, and from the crippled 

limbs shot foi'th 
Terrible lights, as pure long blades of 

fire. 
"Withdraw thy touch! withdraw thy 

touch ! " he cried, 
" Or else shall I be blinded." Then 

the child 
Stood back from him ; and he sat down 

apart. 
Recovering of his manhood: and he 

heard 
The beggar and the child discourse of 

things 
Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came 
Anew ; and, when the beggar looked 

on him, 
He said, " If I offend not, pray you tell 
Who and what are you, — I behold 

a face 
Marred with old age, sickness, and 

poverty, — 
A cripple with a staff, who long hath 

sat 
Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the 

porch. 
For pain and for the wind's inclemency. 
What are you?" Then the beggar 

made reply, 
" I was a delegate, a living power ; 
My work was bliss, for seeds were in 

my hand 



To plant a new-made world. O happy 

work ! 
It grew and blossomed ; but my dwell- 
ing-place 
Was far remote from heaven. I have 

not seen ; 
I knew no wish to enter there. But, 

lo! 
There went forth rumors, running out 

like rays. 
How some, that were of power like 

even to mine. 
Had made request to come and find a 

place 
Within its walls. And these were 

satisfied 
With promises, and sent to this far 

world 
To take the weeds of your mortality. 
And minister, and suffer grief and pain, 
And die like men. Then were they 

gathered in. 
They saw a face, and were accounted 

kin 
To Whom thou knowest, for He is kin 

to men. 

"Then I did wait; and oft, at work, I 

sang, 
'To minister ! oh, joy, to minister! ' 
And, it being known, a message came 

to me : 
'Whether is best, thou forest-planter 

wise. 
To minister to others, or that they 
Should minister to thee ? ' Then, on 

my face 
Low lying, I made answer : * It is best, 
Most High, to minister;' and thus 

came back 
The answer, — ' Choose not for thyself 

the best : 
Go down, and, lo ! my poor shall rtiinis- 

ter. 
Out of their poverty, to thee ; shall 

learn 
Compassion by thy frailty; and shall 

oft 
Turn back, when speeding home from 

work, to help 
Thee, weak and crippled, home. My 

little ones, 
Thou shalt importune for their slender 

n.itt. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



227 



And pray, and move them that they 

give it up 
For love of Me.' " . 

The curate answered him, 
" Art thou content, O great one from 

afar! 
If I may ask, and not offend?" He 

said, 
"lam. Behold! I stand not all alone. 
That I should think to do a perfect 

work. 
I may not wish to give; for I have 

heard 
'Tis best for me that I receive. For 

me, 
God is the only giver, and His gift 
Is one." With that, the httle child 

sighed out, 
"O master! master! I am out of 

heaven 
Since noonday, and I hear them calling 

me. 
If you be ready, great one, let us go : — 
Hark! hark! they call." 

Then did the beggar lift 
His face to heaven, and utter forth a 

cry 
As of the pangs of death, and every 

tree 
Moved as if shaken by a sudden 

wind. 
He cried again, and there came forth a 

hand 
From some invisible form, which, being 

laid 
A little moment on the curate's eyes. 
It dazzled him with light that brake 

from it, 
So that he saw no more. 



"What shall I do?" 
The curate murmured, when he came 

again 
To himself and looked about him. 

" This is strange ! 
My thoughts are all astray; and yet, 

_ methinks, 
A weight is taken from my heart. Lo ! 

lo! 
There lieth at my feet, frail, white, and 

dead, 



The sometime beggar. He is happy 

now. 
There was a child ; but he is gone, and 

he 
Is also happy. I am glad to think 
I am not bound to make the wrong go 

right ; 
But only to discover, and to do, 
With cheerful heart, the work that God 

appoints." 



With that, he did compose, with rever- 
ent care, 

The dead ; continuing, " I will trust in 
Him, 

That He can hold His own ; and I 
will take 

His will, above the work He sendeth 
me, 

To be my chief est good." 

Then went he forth, 
" I shall die early," thinking: " I am 

warned. 
By this fair vision, that I have not 

long 
To live." Yet he lived on to good old 

age; — 
Ay; he lives yet, and he is working 

still. 



It may be there are many in like case: 
They give themselves, and are in misery 
Because the gift is small, and doth not 

make 
The world by so much better as they 

fain 
Would have it. 'Tis a fault; but, as 

for us, 
Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a 

fault 
More kindly looked on by The Majesty 
Than our best virtues are. Why, what 

are we ! 
What have we given, and what have we 

desired 
To give, the world ? 

There must be something wTong. 
Look to it : let us mend our ways. 
Farewell. 



328 



NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. 



A BIRTHDAY WALK. 
(written for a friend's birthday.) 



"The days of our life are threescore 
years and ten." 



A birthday : — and now a day that 
rose 
With much of hope, with meaning 
rife — 
A thoughtful day from dawn to close : 
The middle day of human life. 

In sloping fields on narrow plains, 
The sheep were feeding on their 
knees, 

As we went through the winding lanes, 
Strewed with red buds of alder-trees. 

So warm the day — its influence lent 
To flagging thought a stronger wing; 

So utterly was winter spent, 
So sudden was the birth of spring. 

Wild crocus flowers in copse and 
hedge — 

In sunlight, clustering thick below. 
Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge, 

Where sparkled yet a line of snow. 

And crowded snowdrops faintly hung 
Their fair heads lower for the heat, 

While in still air all branches flung 
Their shadowy doubles at our feet. 

And through the hedge the sunbeams 

crept. 
Dropped through the maple and the 

birch ; 
And lost in airy distance slept 

On the broad tower of Tamworth 

Church. 

Then, lingering on the downward way, 
A little space we resting stood, 

To watch the golden haze that lay 
Adown that river by the wood. 



A distance vague, the bloom of sleep 
The constant sun had lent the scene, 

A veiling charm on dingles deep 

Lay soft those pastoral hills between. 

There are some days that die not out, 
Nor alter by reflection's power, 

Whose converse calm, whose words 
devout. 
For ever rest, the spirit's dower. 

And they are days when drops a veil — 
A mist upon the distance past : 

And while we say to peace — "All 
hail! " 
We hope that always it shall last. 

Times when the troubles of the heart 
Are hushed — as winds were hushed 
that day — 
And budding hopes begin to start. 
Like those green hedgerows on our 
way: 

When all within and all around. 

Like hues on that sweet landscape 
blend, 
And Nature's hand has made to sound 
The heartstrings that her touch at- 
tend: 

When there are rays within, like those 
That streamed through maple and 
through birch, 
And rested ui such calm repose" 

On the broad tower of Tamwortb 
Church. 



NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. 

She was but a child, a child, 

And I a man grown ; 
Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild, 
And, I thought, my own. 
What could I do? The long grass 
groweth. 
The long wave floweth with a mur- 
mur on : 
The why and the wherefore of it all 
who knoweth ? 
Ere I thought to lose her she v.'as 
grown — and gone. 



WITH A DIAMOND. 



229 



This day or that day in warm spring 

weather, 
The lamb that was tame will yearn to 

break its tether. 
" But if the world wound thee," I said, 

"come back to me, 
Down in the dell wishing — wishing, 

wishing for thee." 

The dews hang on the white may, 

Like a ghost it stands, 
All in the dusk before day 
That folds the dim lands: 
Dark fell the skies when once belated. 
Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the 
sun ; 
But wake, hearf, and sing, for not in 
vain I waited. 
O clear, O solemn dawning, lo, the 
maid is won ! 
Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and 

clover, 
Lest the bride wet her feet while she 

walks over ; 
Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all 

fair to see : 
Down the dell she's coming — coming, 
coming with me. 



A GLEANING SONG. 

"Whither away, thou little careless 
rover? 
(Kind Roger's true) 
Whither away, across yon bents and 
clover. 
Wet, wet with dew ? ' ' 
" Roger here, Roger there — 

Roger — O, he sighed, 
Yet let me glean among the wheat, 
Nor sit kind Roger's bride." 

"What wilt thou do when all the 
gleaning' s ended, 
What wilt thou do ? 
The cold will come, and fog and frost- 
work blended 
(Kind Roger's true)." 
" Sleet and rain, cloud and storm. 

When they cease to frown 
I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet, 
And cry them up the town." 



"What if at last thy careless heart 
awaking 
This day thou rue ? " 
"I'll cry my flowers, and think for all 
its breaking. 
Kind Roger's true ; 
Roger here, Roger there, 
O, my true love sighed. 
Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my 
feet 
And rest kind Roger's bride." 



WITH A DIAMOND. 

While Time a grim old lion gnawing 

lay, 
• And mumbled with his teeth yon 
regal tomb. 
Like some immortal tear undimmed 
for aye, 
This gem was dropped among the 
dust of doom. 

Dropped, haply, by a sad, forgotten 
queen, 
A tear to outlast name, and fame, 
and tongue : 
Her other tears, and ours, all tears 
terrene, 
For great new griefs to be hereafter 
sung. 

Take it, — a goddess might have wept 
such tears, 
Or Dame Electra changed into a 
star. 
That waxed so dim because her chil- 
dren's years 
In leaguered Troy were bitter through 
long war. 

Not till the end to end to grow dull or 
waste, — 
Ah, what a little while the light we 
share ! 
Hand after hand shall yet with this be 
graced, 
Signing the Will that leaves it to an 
heir. 



MARRIED LOVERS. 



FANCY. 

FANCY, if thou flyest, come back 

anon, 
Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's 

fipst word, 
And fragrant as the feathers of that 
bird, 
Which feeds upon the budded cinna- 
mon 

1 ask thee not to work, or sigh — play 

on. 
From nought that was not, was, or is, 

deterred ; 
The flax that Old Fate spun thy 
flights have stirred, 
And waved memorial grass of Mara- 
thon. 
Play, but be gentle, not as on that day 
I saw thee running down the rims of 
doom 
With stars thou hadst been stealing — 
while they lay 
Smothered in light and blue — 
clasped to thy breast ; 
Bring rather to me in the firelit room 
A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. 



COMPENSATION. 

One launched a ship, but she was 
wrecked at sea ; 
He built a bridge, but floods have 
borne it down ; 
He meant much good, none came: 
strange destiny, 
His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears 

none to town, 
Yet good he had not meant became 
his crown ; 
For once at work, when even as nature 
free. 
From thought of good he was, or of 
renown, 
God took the work for good and let 

good be. 
So wakened with a trembling after 
sleep, 
Dread Mona Roa yields her fate- 
ful store ; 
All gleaming hot the scarlet rivers 
creep, 



And fanned of great-leaved palms slip 

to the shore. 
Then stolen to unplumbed wastes of 
that far deep. 
Lay the foundations for one island. 



LOOKING DOWN. 

Mountains of sorrow, I have heard 
your moans. 
And the moving of your pines ; but 

we sit higl) 
On your green shoulders, nearer 
stoops the sky. 
And pure airs visit us from all the zones. 
Sweet world beneath, too happy far 
to sigh. 
Dost thou look thus beheld from 

heavenly thrones? 
No; not for all the love that counts 
thy stones. 
While sleepy with great light the 
valleys lie. 
Strange, rapturous peace ! its sunshine 
doth enfold 
My heart; I have escaped to the 
days divine. 
It seemeth as bygone ages back had 
rolled. 
And all the eldest past was now, was 
mine ; 
Nay, even as if Melchizedec of old 
Might here come forth to us with 
bread and- wine. 



MARRIED LOVERS. 

Come away, the clouds are high, 
Put the flashing needles by. 
Many days are not to spare. 
Or to waste, my fairest fair ! 
All is ready. Come to-day, 
For the nightingale her lay. 
When she findeth that the whole 
Of her love, and all her soul, 
Cannot forth of her sweet throat, 
Sobs the while she draws her breath, 
And the bravery of her note 
In a few days altereth. 



A WINTER SONG. 



Come, ere she despond, and see 
In a silent ecstasy 

Chestnuts heave for hours and hours 
All the glory of their flowers 
To the melting blue above, 
That broods over them like love. 
Leave the garden walls, wliere blow 
Apple-blossoms pink, and low 
Ordered beds of tulips fine. 
Seek the blossoms made divine 
With a scent that is their soul. 
These are soulless. Bring the white 
Of thy gown to'bathe in light 
Walls for narrow hearts. The whole 
Earth is found, and air and sea, 
Not too wide for thee and me. 

Not too wide, and yet thy face 
Gives the meaning of all space, 
And thine eyes, with starbeams fraught. 
Hold the measure of all thought ; 
For of them my soul besought, 
And was shown a glimpse of thine — 
A veiled vestal, with divine 
Solace, in sweet love's despair. 
For that life is brief as fair. 
Who hath most, he yearneth most, 
Sure, as seldom heretofore. 
Somewhere of the gracious more. 
Deepest joy the least shall boast, 
Asking with new-opened eyes 
The remainder ; that which lies 
O, so fair! but not all conned — 
O, so near ! and yet beyond. 

Come, and in the woodland sit, 
Seem a wonted part of it. 
Then, while moves the delicate air, 
And the glories of thy hair 
Little flickering sun-rays strike, 
Let me see what thou art like ; 
For great love enthralls me so. 
That, in sooth, I scarcely know. 
Show me, in a house all green, 
Save for long gold wedges' sheen. 
Where the flies, white sparks of fire, 
Dart and hover and aspire. 
And the leaves, air-stirred on high, 
Feel such joy they needs must sigh. 
And the untracked grass makes sweet 
All fair flowers to touch thv feet, 
And the bees about them hum. 
A.11 the world is waiting. Come ! 



A WINTER SONG. 

Came the dread Archer up yonder 
lawn — 
Night is the time for the old to die — 
But woe for an arrow that smote the 
fawn, 
When the hind that was sick un- 
scathed went by. 



Father lay moaning, " Her fault was 
sore 
(Night is the time when the old 
must die). 
Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once 
more, 
For heart is failing: the end is 
nigh." 

"Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I 
cried 
(Night is the time for the old to die), 
" Woe for the wish if till morn ye 
bide" — 
Dark was the welkin and wild the 
sky. 



Heavily plunged from the roof the 
snow — 
(Night is the time when the old will 
die). 
She answered, " My mother, 'tis well, 
I go." 
Sparkled the north star, the wrack 
flew high. 

First at his head, and last at his feet 
(Night is the time when the old 
should die). 
Kneeling I watched till his soul did 
fleet, 
None else that loved him, none else 
were nigh. 



I wept in the night as the desolate 
weep 
(Night is the time for the old to die), 
Cometh my daughter? the drifts are 
deep, 
Across the cold hollows how white 
they lie. 



232 



WISHING. 



I sought her afar through the spectral 
trees 
(Night is the time when the old must 
die), 
The fells were all muffled, the floods 
did freeze, 
And a wrathful moon hung red in 
the sky. 



By night I found her where pent 
waves steal 
(Night is the time when the old should 
die), 
But she lay stiff by the locked mill- 
wheel. 
And the old stars lived in their homes 
on high. 



BINDING SHEAVES. 

Hark! a lover binding sheaves 

To his maiden sings, 
Flutter, flutter go the leaves, 

Larks drop their wings. 
Little brooks for all their mirth 

Are not blythe as he. 
*' Give me what the love is worth 

That I give thee. 



" Speech that cannot be forborne 

Tells the story through : 
I sowed my love in with the corn, 

And they both grew. 
Count the world full wide of girth, 

And hived honey sweet, 
But count the love of more worth 

Laid at thy feet. 



" Money's worth is house and land, 

Velvet coat and vest. 
Work's worth is bread in hand. 

Ay, and sweet rest. 
Wilt thou learn what love is worth? 

Ah ! she sits above. 
Sighing, ' Weigh me not with earth, 

Love's worth is love.' " 



WORK. 

Like coral insects multitudinous 
The minutes are whereof our life is' 

made. 
They build it up as in the deep's blue 
shade 
It grows, it comes to light, and then, 

and thus 
For both there is an end. The popu- 
lous 
Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that 

have paid 
Life's debt of work are spent ; the 
work is laid 
Before our feet that shall come after us. 
We may not stay to watch if it will 
speed, 
The bard if on some luter's string hiS 
song 
Live sweetly yet ; the hero if his star 
Doth shine. Work is its own best 
• earthly meed, 
Else have we none more than the 
sea-born throng 
Who wrought those marvellous isles 
that bloom afar. 



WiSHING. 

When I reflect how little I have done. 

And add to that how little I have 

seen. 

Then furthermore how little I have won 

Of joy, or good, how little known, or 

been: 
I long for other life more full, more 
keen. 
And yearn to change with such as well 
have run — 
Yet reason mocks me — nay, the soul, 
I ween. 
Granted her choice would dare to 

change with none ; 
No, — not to feel, as Blondel when his 
lay 
Pierced the strong tower, and Rich- 
ard answered it — 
No, not to do, as Eustace on the day 
He left fair Calais to her weeping 
fit — 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 



233 



No, not to be, • — Columbus, waked from 

sleep 
When his new world rose from the 

charmed deep. 



TO . 

Strange was the doom of Heracles, 
whose shade 
Had dwelling in dim Hades the un- 

blest. 
While yet his form and presence sat a 
guest 
With the old immortals when the feast 

was made. 
Thine like, thus differs ; form and pres- 
ence laid 
In this dim chamber of enforced 

rest, 
It is the unseen "shade" which, 
risen, hath pressed 
Above all heights where feet Olympian 

strayed. 
My soul admires to hear thee speak ; 
thy thought 
Falls from a high place like an Au- 
gust star, 
Or some great eagle from his air-hung 
rings — 
When swooping past a snow-cold 
mountain scar — 
Down the steep slope of a long sunbeam 

brought, 
I /He stirs the wheat with the steerage 
/ of his wings. 



ON THE BORDERS OF CAN- 
NOCK CHASE. 

A COTTAGER leaned whispering by her 

hives, 
Telling the bees some news, as they 

lit down, 
And entered one by one their waxen 
town. 
Larks passioning hung o'er their brood- 
ing wives, 
And all the sunny hills where heather 
thrives 



Lay satisfied with peace. A stately 

crown 
Of trees enringed the upper headland 
brown. 
And reedy pools, wherein the moor-hen 

dives, 
Glittered and gleamed. 

A resting-place for light, 

They that were bred here love it ; but 

they say, 

" We shall not have it long; in three 

years' time 

A hundred pits will cast out fires by 

night, 
Down yon still glen their smoke shall 
trail its way. 
And the white ash lie thick in lieu of 
rime." 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

Once on a time there walked a mariner, 
That had been shipwrecked, on a 

lonely shore. 
And the green water made a restless 

stir, 
And a great flock of mews sped on 

before. 
He had nor food nor shelter, for the 

tide 
Rose on the one, and cliffs on the other 

side. 

Brown cliffs they were ; they seemed to 

pierce the sky. 
That was an awful deep of empty 

blue, 
Save that the wind was in it, and on 

high 
A wavering skein of wild-fowl tracked 

it through. 
He marked them not, but went with 

movement slow. 
Because his thoughts were sad, his 

courage low. 

His heart was numb, he neither wept 
nor sighed. 
But wearifuUy lingered by the wave ; 



234 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 



Until at length it chanced that he 
espied, 
Far up, an opening in the cliff, a 
cave, 
A shelter where to sleep in his distress, 
And lose his sorrow in forgetf ulness. 

With that he clambered up the rugged 

face 
Of that steep cliff that all in shadow 

lay. 
And, lo, there was a dry and homelike 

place. 
Comforting refuge for the castaway ; 
And he laid down his weary, weary 

head. 
And took his fill of sleep till dawn waxed 

red. 

When he awoke, warm stirring from 
the south 
Of delicate summer air did sough and 
flow ; 

He rose, and, wending to the cavern's 
mouth. 
He cast his eyes a little way belov^f, 

Where on the narrow ledges, sharp and 
rude. 

Preening their wings, the blue rock- 
pigeons cooed. 

Then he looked lower and saw the 
lavender 
And sea-thrift blooming in long crev- 
ices. 

And the brown wallflower — April's 
messenger, 
The wallflower marshalled in her 
companies. 

Then lower yet He looked adown the 
steep, 

And sheer beneath him lapped the 
lovely deep. 

The laughing deep ; — and it was paci- 
fied 
As if it had not raged that other day. 

And it went murmuring in the morn- 
ingtide . _ 
Innumerable flatteries on its way, 

Kissing the cliffs and whispering at 
their feet 

With exquisite advancement, and re- 
treat. 



This when the mariner beheld he 
sighed. 
And thought on his companions lying 
low. 

But while he gazed with eyes unsat- 
isfied 
On the fair reaches of their over- 
throw, 

Thinking it strange he only lived of all, 

But not returning thanks, he heard a 
call! 



A soft sweet call, a voice of tender ruth, 
He thought it came from out the cave. 
And, lo, 

It whispered, "Man, look up!" But 
he, forsooth. 
Answered, " I cannot, for the long 
waves flow 

Across my gallant ship where sunk she 
lies 

With all my riches and my merchan- 
dise. 



" Moreover, I am heavy for the fate 
Of these my mariners drowned in die 

deep ; 
I must lament me for their sad estate 
Now they are gathered in their last 

long sleep. 
O! the unpitying heavens upon me 

frown, 
Then how should I look up? — I must 

look down." 

And he stood yet watching the fair 
green sea 
Till hunger reached him ; then he 
made a fire, 

A driftwood fire, and wandered list- 
lessly 
And gathered many eggs at his de- 
sire, 

And di-essed them for his meal, and 
then he lay 

And slept, and woke upon the second 
day. 

When as he said, "the cave shall be 
my home ; 
None will molest me, for the brown 
cliffs rise 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 



235 



Like castles of defence behind, — the 

foam 
Of the remorseless sea beneath me 

lies ; 
'Tis easy from the cliff my food to 

win, — 
The nations of the rock-dove breed 

therein. 

'* For fuel, at the ebb yon fair expanse 
Is strewed with driftwood by the 
breaking wave, 
And in the sea is fish for sustenance. 
I will build up the entrance of the 
cave, 
And leave therein a window and a door, 
And here will dwell and leave it never- 
more." 

Then even so he did ; and when his 
task, 
Many long days being over, was com- 
plete ; 

When he had eaten, as he sat to bask 
In the red firelight glowing at his feet, 

He was right glad of shelter, and he 
said, 

" Now for my comrades am I com- 
forted." 

Then did the voice awake and speak 

again ; 
It murmured, "Man, look up!" 

But he replied, 
*' I cannot. O, mine eyes, mine eyes 

are fain 
Down on the red wood-ashes to 

abide 
Because they warm me." Then the 

voice was still, 
And left the lonely mariner to his will. 

And soon it came to pass that he got 

gain. 
He had great flocks of pigeons which 

he fed, 
And drew great store of fish from out 

the 7Tiain, 
And down from eiderducks; and 

then he said, 
" It is not good that I should lead my 

life 
In silence, I will take to me a wife." 



He took a wife, and brought her home 

to. him ; 
And he was good to her and cherished 

her 
So that she loved him; then when 

light waxed dim 
Gloom came no more ; and she 

would minister 
To all his wants ; while he, being well 

content. 
Counted her company right excellent. 

But once as on the lintel of. the door 
She leaned to watch him while he 

put to sea. 
This happy wife, down-gazing at the 

shore. 
Said sweetly, " It is better now with 

me 
Than it was lately when I used to spin 
lu my old father's house beside the 

hn." 

And then the soft voice of the cave 
awoke — 
The soft voice which had haunted it 
erewhile — 

And gently to the wife it also spoke, 
"Woman, look up!" But she, 
witli tender guile 

Gave it denial, answering, *' Nay, not 
so. 

For all that I should look on lieth be- 
low. 

"The great sky overhead is not so 
good 
For my two eyes as yonder stainless 
sea, 

The source and yielder of our liveli- 
hood. 
Where rocks his httle boat that 
loveth me." 

This when the wife had said she moved 
away. 

And looked no higher than the wave 
all day. 

Now when the year ran out a child she 
. bore, 
And there was such rejoicing in the 
cave 
As surely never had there been before 



236 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 



Since God first made it. Then full, 

sweet, and grave, 
The voice, "God's utmost blessing 

brims thy cup, 
O, father of this child, look up, look 

up!" 

"Speak to my wife," the mariner re- 
plied. 
*' I have much work — right welcome 
work 'tis true — 

Another mouth to feed." And then it 
sighed, 
"Woman, look up!" She said, 
" Make no ado, 

For I must needs look down, on any- 
wise. 

My heaven is in the blue of these dear 
eyes." 



The seasons of the year did swiftly 
whirl. 
They measured time by one small 
life alone ; 
On such a day the pretty pushing 
pearl 
That mouth they loved to kiss had 
sweetly shown. 
That smiling mouth, and it had made 

_ essay 
To give them names on such another 
day. 

And afterward his infant history, 
Whether he played with baubles on 

the floor. 
Or crept to pat the rock-doves pecking 

nigh, 
And feeding on the threshold of the 

door. 
They loved to mark, and all his mar- 

vellings dim. 
The mysteries that beguiled and baffled 

him. 



He was so sv/eet, that oft his mother 
said, 
" O, cliild, how was it that I dweU 
content 
Before thou camest? Blessings on thy 
head, 
Thy pretty talk it is so innocent, 



That oft for all my joy, though it be 

deep. 
When thou art prattling, I am like to 

weep." 

Summer and winter spent themselves 
again. 
The rock-doves in their season bred, 
the cliff 

Grew sweet, for every cleft would enter- 
tain 
Its tuft of blossom, and the mariner's 
skiff. 

Early and late, would linger in the 
bay. 

Because the sea was calm and winds 
away. 

The little child about that rocky 
height, 
Led by her loving hand who gave 
him birth. 

Might wander in the clear unclouded 
light, _ _ 

And takes his pastime m the beau- 
teous earth ; 

Smell the fair flowers in stony cradles 
swung, 

And see God's happy creatures feed 
their young. 

And once it came to pass, at eventide, 
His mother set him in the cavern 

door, 
And filled his lap with grain, and stood 

aside 
To watch the circling rock-doves 

soar, and soar. 
Then dip, alight, and run in circling 

bands. 
To take the barley from his open hands. 

And even while she stood and gazed al 

him. 
And his grave father's eyes upon 

him dwelt. 
They heard the tender voice, and it 

was dim. 
And seemed full softly in the air to 

melt ; 
" Father," it murmured, " Mothei"," 

dying awa^^ 
"Look up, while yet the hours are 

called to-day." 



"I will," the father answered 
not now ; " 
The mother said, " Sweet voice, O 
speak to me 

At a convenient season." And the 
brow 
Of the cliff began to quake right fear- 
fully, 

There was a rending crash, and there 
did leap , 

A riven rock and plunge into the deep. 

They said, "A storm is coming ; " but 

they slept 
That night in peace, and thought the 

storm had passed, 
For there was not a cloud to intercept 
The sacred moonlight on the cradle 

cast ; 
And to his rocking boat at dawn of 

day. 
With joy of heai-t the mariner took his 

way. 

But when he mounted up the path at 
night. 
Foreboding not qf trouble or mis- 
chance, 

His wife came out into the fading light. 
And met him with a S'erious counte- 
nance ; 

And she broke out in tears and sob- 
bings thick, 

" The child is sick, my little child is 
sick." 



They knelt beside him in the sultry 

dark. 
And when the moon looked in his face 

was pale. 
And when the red sun, like a burning 

barque, 
Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wail 
Sank deep into their hearts, and pite- 

ously 
They fell to chiding of their destiny. 

The doves unheeded cooed that live- 
long day. 
Their pretty playmate cared for them 
no more ; 

The sea-thrift nodded, wet with glis- 
tening spray, 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 
but 



237 



None gathered it; the long wave 
washed the shore ; 

He did not know, nor lift his eyes to 
trace, 

The new fallen shadow in his dwelling- 
place. 

The sultry sun beat on the cliffs all 
day, 
And hot calm airs slept on the pol- 
ished sea. 
The mournful mother wore her time 
away. 
Bemoaning of her helpless misery, 
Pleading and plaining, till the day was 

done, 
" O look on me, my love, my little one. 



" What aileth thee, that thou dost lie 
and moan? 
Ah, would that I might bear it in thy 
stead." 

The father made not his forebodings 
known, . 
But gazed, and in his secret soul he 
said, 

" I may have sinned, on sin waits pun- 
ishment. 

But as for him, sweet blameless inno- 
cent, 

" What has he done that he is stricken 

down? 
O it is hard to see him sink and 

fade, 
When I, that counted him my dear life's 

crown. 
So willingly have worked while he 

has played ; 
That he might sleep, have risen, come 

storm, come heat. 
And thankfully would fast that he might 

eat." 

My God, how short our happy days 
appear ! 
How long the sorrowful! They 
thought it long. 
The sultry mom that brought such evil 
cheer. 
And sat, and wished, and sighed for 
evensong ; 



233 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 



It came, and -cooling wafts about him 

stirred, 
Yet when they spoke he answered not 

a word. 

" Take heart," they cried, but their sad 

hearts sank low 
When he would moan and turn his 

restless head, 
And wearily the lagging morns would 

And nights, while they sat watching 

by his bed. 
Until a storm came up v/ith wind and 

rain, 
And lightning ran' along the troubled 

main. 

Over their heads the mighty thunders 

brake. 
Leaping and tumbling down from 

rock to rock, 
Then burst anew and made the clifTs to 

quake 
As they were living things and felt 

the shock ; 
The waiting sea to sob as if in pain, 
And all the midnight vault to ring 

again. 

A lamp was burning in the mariner's 

cave. 
But the blue lightning flashes made 

it dim ; 
And when the mother heard those 

thunders rave. 
She took her little child to cherish 

him; 
She took him in her arms, and on her 

breast 
Full wearily she courted him to rest, 

And soothed him long until the storm 
was spent, 
And the last thunder peal had died 
away, 

And stars were out in all the firmament. 
Then did he cease to moan, and slum- 
bering lay, 

While in the welcome silence, pure and 
deep. 

The care-worn parents sweetly fell 
asleep. 



And in a dream, enwrought with fan- 
cies thick, 
The mother thought she heard tha 
rock-doves coo 

(She had forgotten that her child wa9 
sick), 
And she went forth their morning 
meal to strew ; 

Then over all the cliff with earnest 
care 

She sought her child, and lo, he was 
not there ! 

But she was not afraid, though long she 

sought 
And climbed the cliff, and set her feet 

in grass. 
Then reached a river, broad and full, 

she thought. 
And at its brink he sat. Alas ! alas ! 
For one stood near him, fair and unde* 

filed, 
An innocent, a marvellous man-child. 

In garments white as wool, and O, most 

fair, 
A rainbow covered him with mystic 

light ; 
Upon the warmed grass his feet were 

bare, 
And as he breathed, the rainbow in 

her sight 
In passions of clear crimson trembling 

lay, 
With gold and violet mist made fair the 

day. 

Her little life! she thought, his little 

hands 
Were full of flowers that he did play 

withal ; 
But when he saw the boy o' the golden 

lands. 
And looked him in the face, he let 

them fall, 
Held through a rapturous pause in 

wistful wise 
To the sweet strangeness of those keen 

child-eyes. 

" Ah, dear and awful God, who chasten- 
est me, 
How shall my soul to this be recon- 
ciled.- 



A REVERIE. 



239 



It is the Saviour of the world," quoth 

she, 
" And to my child He cometh as a 

child." 
Then on her knees she fell bythat vast 

stream — 
Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's 

dream ! 

For lo, that Elder Child drew nearer 

now, 
Fair as the light, and purer than the 

sun. 
The calms of heaven were brooding on 

his brow. 
And in his arms He took her little 

one, 
Her child, that knew her, but with 

sweet demur 
Drew back, nor held his hands to come 

to her. 

With that in mother misery sore she 

wept — 
" O Lamb of God, I love my child 

so much! 
He stole away to Thee while we two 

slept. 
But give him back, for Thou hast 

many such ; 
And as for me I have but one. O 

deign, 
Dear Pity of God, to give him me 

again." 

His feet were on the river. Oh, his 

feet • 
Had touched the river now, and it 
was great ; 

And yet He hearkened when she did 
entreat. 
And turned in quietness as He would 
wait — 

Wait till she looked upon Him, and be- 
hold, 

There lay a long way off a city of gold. 

Like to a jasper and a sardine stone. 
Whelmed m the rainbow stood that 

fair man-child, 
Mighty and innocent, that held her 

own, 



And as might be his manner at home 

he smiled. 
Then while she looked and looked, the 

vision brake, 
And all amazed she started up awake. 

And lo, her little child was gone in- 
deed ! 
The sleep that knows no waking he 
had slept. 

Folded to heaven's own heart ; in rain- 
bow brede 
Clothed and made glad, while they 
two mourned and wept, 

But in the drinking of their bitter cup 

The sweet voice spoke once more, and 
sighed, " Look up 1 " 

They heard, and straightway answered, 

" Even so: 
For what abides that we should look 

on here? 
The heavens are better than this earth 

below. 
They are of more account and far 

more dear. 
We will look up, for all most sweet and 

fair. 
Most pure, most excellent, is garnered 

there." 



A REVERIE. 

When I do sit apart 
And commune with my heart, 
She brings me forth the treasures once 
my own ; 
Shows me a happy place 
Where leaf-buds swelled apace. 
And wasting rims of snow in sunlight 
shone. 

Rock, in a mossy glade, 
The larch-trees lend thee shade, 
That just begin to feather with their 
leaves ; 
From out thy crevice deep 
White tufts of snowdrops peep, _ 
And melted rime drips softly from thine 
eaves. 



240 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 



Ah, rock, I know, I know 

That yet thy snowdrops grow, 
And yet doth sunshine fleck them 
through the tree, 

Whose sheltering branches hide 

The cottage at its side, 
That nevermore will shade or shelter 



I know the stockdoves' note 
Athwart the glen doth float : 
With sweet foreknowledge of her twins 
oppressed, 
And longings onward sent, 
She broods before the event, 
While leisurely she mends her shallow 
nest. 

Once to that cottage door, 
In happy days of yore, 
My little love made footprints in the 
snow. 
She was so glad of spring, 
She helped the birds to sing, 
I know she dwells there yet — the rest 
I do not know. 

They sang, and would not stop. 
While drop, and drop, and drop, 
I heard the melted rime in sunshine 
fall; 
And narrow wandering rills, 
Where leaned the daffodils. 
Murmured and murmured on, and that 
was all. 

I think, but cannot tell, 
I think she loved me well. 
And some dear fancy with my future 
twined. 
But I shall never know, 
Hope faints, and lets it go. 
That passionate want forbid to speak 
its mind. 



DEFTON WOOD. 

I HELD my way through Defton Wood, 

And on to Wandor Hall ; 
The dancing leaf let down the light, 

In hovering spots to fall. 



"O young, young leaves, you match 
me well," 

My heart was merry, and sung — 
" Now wish me joy of my sweet youth ; 

My love — she, too, is young ! 

O so many, many, many 

Little homes above my head! 
O so many, many, many 
Dancing blossoms round me 
spread ! 
O so many, many, many 

Maidens sighing yet for none! 
Speed, ye wooers, speed with 

any — 
■ Speed with all but one." 

I took my leave of Wandor Hall, 

And trod the woodland ways. 
" What shall I do so long to bear 

The burden of my days?" 
I sighed my heart into the boughs 

Whereby the culvers cooed ; 
For only I between them went 

Unwooing and unwooed. 

** O so many, many, many 

Lilies bending stately heads ! 
O so many, many, many 

Strawberries ripened on their 
beds! 
O so many, many, many 

Maids, and yet my heart undone! 
What to me are all, are any — 

I have lost my — one." 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT 

(/« Lichfield Cathedral). 

Marvels of sleep, grown cold! 
Who hath not longed to fold 
With pitying ruth, forgetful of their 
bliss. 
Those cherub forms that lie. 
With none to watch them nigh. 
Or touch the silent lips with one warm 
human kiss ? 



AN ANCIENT CHESS KING. 



241 



What ! they are left alone 
All night with graven stone, 
Pillars and arches that above them 
meet ; 
While through those windows 

high 
The journeying stars can spy, 
And dim blue moonbeams drop on 
their uncovered feet ? 

O cold ! yet look again, 
There is a wandering vein 
Traced in the hand where those white 
snowdrops lie. 
Let her rapt dreamy smile 
The wondering heart beguile, 
That almost thinks to hear a calm con- 
tented sigh. 

What silence dwells between 
Those severed lips serene ! 
The rapture of sweet waiting breathes 
and grows. 
What trance-like peace is shed 
On her reclining head, 
And e'en on listless feet what languor 
of repose ! 

Angels of joy and love 
Lean softly from above 
And whisper to her sweet and marvel- 
lous things ; 
Tell of the golden gate 
That opened wide doth wait, 
And shadow her dim sleep with their 
celestial wings. 

Hearing of that blest shore 

She thinks on earth no more, 
Contented to forego this wintry land. 

She has nor thought nor care 

But to rest calmly there, 
And hold the snowdrops pale that 
blossom in her hand. 

But on the other face 
Broodeth a mournful grace, 
This had foreboding thoughts beyond 
her years. 
While sinking thus to sleep 
She saw her mother weep. 
And could not lift her hand to dry 
those heart-sick tears. 



Could not — but failing lay, 
Sighed her young life away, 
And let her arm drop down in listless 
rest, 
Too weary on that bed 
To turn her dying head. 
Or fold the little sister nearer to her 
breast. 

Yet this is faintly told 
On features fair and cold, 
A look of calm surprise, of meek re- 
gret, 
As if with life oppressed 
She turned her to her rest. 
But felt her mother's love and looked 
not to forget. 

How wstfully they close, 
Sweet eyes, to their repose! 

How quietly declines the placid brow! 
The young lips seem to say, 
" I have wept much to-day, 

And felt some bitter pains, but they 
are over now." 

Sleep ! there are left below 
Many who pine to go. 
Many who lay it to their chastened 
souls. 
That gloomy days draw nigh, 
And they are blest who die, 
For this green world grows worse the 
longer that she rolls. 

And as for me I know 
A little of her woe, 
Her yearning want doth in my soul 
abide, 
And sighs of them that weep, 
" O put us soon to sleep, 
For when we wake — with Thee — we 
shall be satisfied." 



AN ANCIENT CHESS KING. 

Haply some Rajah first in the ages 

gone 
Amid his languid ladies fingered thee, 
While a black nightingale, sun-swart 

as he, 



242 



Sang his one wife, love's passionate 
oraison ; 

Haply thou may'st have pleased Old 
Prester John 
Among his pastures, when full roy- 
ally 
He sat in tent, grave shepherds at 
his knee, 

While lamps of balsam winked and 
glimmered on. 

What doest thou here ? Thy masters 
are all dead ; 
My lieart is full of ruth and yearning 
pain 

At sight of thee ; O king that hast a 
crown 
Outlasting theirs, and tell'st of great- 
ness fled 

Through cloud-hung nights of una- 
bated rain 

And murmurs of the dark majestic 
town. 



"COMFORT IN THE NIGHT. 

She thought by heaven's high wall that 

she did stray 

Till she beheld the everlasting gate : 

And. she climbed up to it to long, 

and wait, 

Feel with her hands (for it was night), 

and lay 
Her lips to it with kisses; thus to 
pray 
That it might open to her desolate. 
Andlo! it trembled, lo ! her passion- 
ate 
Crying prevailed. A little, little way 
It opened: there fell out a thread of 
light. 
And she saw winged wonders move 
within ; 
Also she heard sweet talking as they 

meant 
To comfort her. They said, " Who 
comes to-night 
Shall one day certainly an entrance 
win;" 
Then the gate closed and she awoke 
content. 



THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 

THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS. 



Though all great deeds were proved 
but fables fine, 
Though earth's old story could be 

told anew. 
Though the sweet fashions loved of 
them that sue 
Were empty as the ruined Delphian 

shrine — 
Though God did never man, in words 
benign, 
With sense of His great Fatherhood 

endue, — 
Though life immortal were a dream 
untrue, 
And He that promised it were not di- 
vine — 
Though soul, though spirit were not, 
and all hope 
Reaching beyond the bourn, melted 
away ; 
Though virtue had no goal and good no 
scope, 
But both were doomed to end with 
this our clay — 
Though all these were not, — to the un- 

gracedheir 
Would this remain, — to live, as though 
they were. 



THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 

As I came round the harbor buoy, 

The lights began to gleam, 
No wave the land-locked water stirred. 

The crags were white as cream ; 
And I marked my love by candle-light 
Sewing her long white seam. 
It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, 

Watch and steer at sea, 
It's reef and furl, and haul the 
line, 
Set sail and think of thee. 

I climbed to reach her cottage door ; 

O sweetly my love sings ! 
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks 
forth, 

My soul to meet it springs 



AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 



a43 



As the shining water leaped of old, 

When stirred by angel wings. 

Aye longing to list anew, 

Awake and in my dream. 
But never a song she sang like this, 
Sewing her long white seam. 

Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, 

That brought me in to thee, 
And peace drop down on that low roof 

For the sight that I did see. 
And the voice, my dear, that rang so 
dear 
All for the love of me. 

For O, for O, with brows bent low 
By the candle's flickering gleam, 
Her wedding gown it was she 
wrought, 
Sewing the long white seam. 



AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 

And what will ye hear, my daughters 
dear ? — 
Oh, what will ye hear this night ? 
Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide 
cheer, _ . 

Or of lovers and ladies bright ? 

"Thou shalt sing," they say (for we 

dwell far away 
From the land where fain would we be), 
"Thou shalt sing us again some old- 
world strain 
That is sung in our own countrie. 

"Thou shalt mind us so of the times 

long ago,. 

When we walked on the upland lea, 

While the old harbor light waxed faint 

in the white, 

Long rays shooting out from the sea ; 

" While lambs were yet asleep, and the 
dew lay deep 
On the grass, and their fleeces clean 
and fair. 
Never grass was seen so thick nor so 
green 
As the grass that grew up there ! 



" In the town was no smoke, for none 
there awoke — 
At our feet it lay still as still could 
be; 
And we saw far below the long river 
flow, 
And the schooners a-warping out to 
sea. 

*' Sing us now a strain shall make us 
feel again 
As we felt in that sacred peace of 
morn, 
When we had the first view of the wet 
sparkling dew, 
In the shyness of a day just born." 

So I sang an old song — it was plain 
and not long — 
I had sung it very oft when they 
were small ; 
And long ere it was done they wept 
every one : 
Yet this was all the song — this was 
all : — 

The snow lies white, and the moon 
gives light, 

I'll out to the freezing mere, 
And ease my heart with one little song, 

For none will be nigh to hear. 

And it's O my love, my love ! 

And it's O my dear, my dear! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild 
woods ring. 

When nobody's nigh to hear. 

My love is young, she is young, is 
young ; 
When she laughs the dimple dips. 
We walked in the wind, and her long 
locks blew 
Till sweetly they touched my lips. 
And I'll out to the freezing mere, 
Where the stiff reeds whistle so low. 
And I'll tell my mind to ihe friendly 
wind. 
Because I have loved her so. 

Ay, and she's true, my lady is true ! 

And that's the best of it all ; 
And when she blushes my heart so 
yearns 



244 



SLEEP. 



That tears are ready to fall. 
And it's O my love, my love! 
And it's O my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild 
woods ring, 
When nobody's nigh to hear. 



COLD AND QUIET. 

Cold, my dear, — cold and quiet. 

In their cups on yonder lea, 
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet ; 
So the moss enfoldeth thee. 
"Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily 
flower — 
Plant at my head, I pray you, a 
green tree ; 
And when our children sleep," she 
sighed, "at the dusk hour, 
And when the lily blossoms, O come 
out to me ! " 

Lost, my dear ? Lost ! nay, deepest 

Love is that which loseth least ; 
Through the night-time while thou 
sleepest, ^ 
Still I watch the shrouded east. 
Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye 
liveth, 
*' Lost" is no word for such a love as 
mine ; 
Love from her past to me a present 
giveth, 
And love itself doth comfort, making 
pain divine. 

Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth 
That which was, and not in vain 
Sacred have I kept, God knoweth, 
Love's last words atween us 
twain. 
"Hold by our past, my only love, my 
lover ; 
Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of 
me ! " 
Boughs from our garden, white with 
bloom hang over. 
Love, now the children slumber, I 
come out to thee. 



A SNOW MOUNTAIN. 

Can I make white enough my thought 
for thee. 
Or wash my words in light ? Thou 
hast no mate 
To sit aloft in the silence silently 
And twin thos#matchless heights un- 
desecrate. * 
Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shel" 
ter, he 
Stood, with his old white head, sur- 
prised at fate ; 
Alone as Galileo, when, set free, 

Before the stars he mused disconso- 
late. 
Ay, and remote, as the dead lords of 
song. 
Great masters who have made us 
what we are. 
For thou and they have taught us how 
to long 
And feel a sacred want of the fair and 
far: 
Reign, and keep life in this our deep 

desire — 
Our only greatness is that we aspire. 



SLEEP. 

(a woman speaks.) 

O SLEEP, we are beholden to thee, 

sleep. 
Thou bearest angels to us in the 

night. 
Saints out of heaven with palms. 

Seen by thy light 
■Sorrow is some old tale that goeth 

not deep ; 
Love is a pouting child. Once I did 

sweep • 
Through space vnth thee, and lo, 

a dazzling sight — 
Stars! They came on, I felt their 

drawing and might ; 
And some had dark companions. Once 

(I weep 
When I remember that) we sailed the 

tide. 
And found fair isles, where no isles 

used to bide. 



LOVE. 



245 



And met there my lost love, who said 

to me, 
That "'twas a long vtistake : Jie had not 

died. 
Sleep, in the world to come how 

strange 'twill be 
Never to want, never to wish for 

thee! 



PROMISING. 

(a man speaks.) 

Once, a new world, the sun-swart mar- 
inere, 
Columbus, promised, and was sore 
withstood, 
Ungraced, unhelped, unheard for many 
a year ; 
But let at last to make his promise 
good. 
Promised and promising I go, most 
dear, 
To better my dull heart with love's 
sweet feud, 
My hfe with its most reverent hope 
and fear, 
And my religion, with fair gratitude. 
O we must part ; the stars for me con- 
tend. 
And all the winds that blow on all 
the seas. 
Through wonderful waste places I must 
wend, 
And with a promise my sad soul ap- 
pease. 



Promise then, promise much of far-off 

bliss ; 
But — ah, for present joy, give me one 

kiss. 



LOVE. 



Who veileth love should first have van- 

?uished fate, 
olded up the dream in her deep 
heart, 
Her fair full lips were silent on that 
smart. 
Thick fringed eyes did on the grasses 

wait. 
What good? one eloquent blush, but 
one, and straight 
The meaning of a life was known; 

for art 
Is often foiled in playing nature's 
part. 
And time holds nothing long invio- 
late. 
Earth's buried seed springs up — 

slowly, or fast : 
The ring came home, that one in ages 
past 
Flung to the keeping of unfathomed 

seas: 
And golden apples on the mystic 
trees 
Were sought and found, and borne 
away at last. 
Though watched of the divine Hes- 
perides. 



246 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN, 



POEMS 

Written on the Deaths of Three Lovely Children who were taken from their 
Paretits withijt a month of on£ another. 



HENRY, 

AGED EIGHT YEARS. 

Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter — woodland hollows thickly strewing, 

Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win, 
While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing 
All without and all within! 

All within ! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round their dwelling 

Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and burdened sighs ; — 
Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom swelling. 
Fast as tears that dim her eyes. 

Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sorrow and mutation, 

But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before to know : — 
I behold them — father, mother — as they seemed to contemplation, 
Only three short weeks ago ! 

Saddened for the morrow's parting — up the stairs at midnight stealing— 

As with cautious foot we glided past the children's open door, — 
" Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled forms at last revealing, 
" Kiss them in their sleep once more." 

You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids scarcely closing, 

Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arras entwined : — 
And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their reposing 
By the movements of the mind ! 

And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping treasures numbered. 
Whispering fondly — " He is dreaming" — as you turned upon your bed — 
Andyour father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumbered, 
With his hand upon your head! 

Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? No! he never 

Heard afar the summons uttered — " Come up hither" — Never knew 
How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever, 
And for ever in their view. . 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 247 

Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us, 

Shrouding wings — majestic beings — hidden by this earthly veil — 
Such as we have called on, saying, "Praise the Lord, O Ananias, 
Azarias, and Misaell " 

But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned Spirits taught him, 

To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will ? 
While he slumbered, w ho can answer for what dreams they may have brought him, 
When at midnight all was still? 

Father! Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber? 

Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray? 
When you count your children over, must you tell a different number, 
Since that happier yesterday ? 

Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a "time" for weeping, 

Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down — 
Coldly sounds the admonition, " Why lament? in better keeping 
Rests the child than in your own." 

" Truth indeed ! .but, oh ! compassion ! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?" 

(Mother, you sliall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale) 
" Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow 
Even a tone that might avail ? 

" Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection? 

Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine? 
Surely no ! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection 
Of the care that burdens mine ! ' ' 

When the winter twilight gathers. Father, and your thoughts shall wander, 

Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries. 
Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder 
From its place upon your knees — 

With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder, 

Of itself the iieart shall question, " Art Thou then no longer here? 
Is it so, my little Henry ? Are we set so far asunder 
Who were wont to be so near ? " 

While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting, 

To itself the heart shall answer, " He shall come to me no more : 
I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice entreating 
For admission at my door.' ' 

But upon your fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling. 

Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know ; 
Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad hearts to be telling, 
*' Daylight breaketh, let roe go ! " 



248 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN; 

Daylight breaketh, little Henry ; in its beams your soul awaketh — 

What though night should dose around us, dim and dreary to the view — 
Though our souls should walk in darkness, far away that morning breaketh 
Into endless day for you ! 



SAMUEL, 

AGED NINE YEARS. 

They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left you lonely — 

Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not separate dwell, 
Fain to seek you in the mansions far away — One lingered only 
To bid those behind farewell ! 

Gentle Boy! — His childlike nature in most guileless form was moulded, 

And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unaware, 
Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still meekly folded, 
Having said his evening prayer. 

Or — if conscious of that summons — " Speak, O Lord, Thy servant heareth" — 

As one said, whose name they gave him, might his willing answer be, 
" Here am I " — like him replying — " At Thy gates my soul appeareth. 
For behold Thou calledst me ! " 

A deep silence — utter silence, on his earthly home descendeth : — 

Reading, playing, sleeping, waking — he is gone, and few remain! 
*' O the loss ! " — they utter, weeping — every voice its echo lendeth — 
"O the loss! " — But, O the gain! 

On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an early landing. 

Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of guilt control — 
Lest that " wickedness should alter the yet simple understanding, 
Or deceit beguile his soul! " 

" Lay not up on earth thy treasure " — they have read that sentence duly. 

Moth and rust shall fret thy riches — earthly good hath swift decay — 
** Even so," each heart replieth — " As for me, my riches truly 
Make them wings and flee away! " 

" O my riches ! — O my children ! — dearest part of life and being, 

Treasures looked to lor the solace of this life's declining years, — 
Were our voices cold to hearing — or our faces cold to seeing, 
That ye left us to our tears?" 

" We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry laughter, 

And the hush of two sweet voices — (healing sounds for spirits bruised!) 
Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway following after, 
Of two names no longer used ! " 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 249 

Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and childish fashion — 

Search and seek them. Baby Brother, with your calm and asking eyes — 
Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad compassion, 
]\Iild regret or dim surprise! 

There are two tall trees above you, by the high east window growing, 

Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt m silence deep, serene ; 
Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards you flowing 
Echo — with a pause between ! 

And that pause? — a voice shall fill it — tones that blessed you daily, nightly, 

Well beloved, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake you now. 
Though so near he stand, that shadows from your trees may tremble lightly 
On his book and on his brow 1 

Sleep then ever! Neither singing of sweet birds shall break your slumber, 

Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, nor drift of snow, 
Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tranquil bosoms cumber 
With one care for things below! 

It is something, the assurance, iV'^t you ne'er shall feel like sorrow, 

Weep no past and dread no future — know not sighine, feel not pain — 
Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller tr -morrow — 
" Clouds returning after rain ! " 

No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each soul awaketh : 

" What though cloiids," they sigh, "be gathered dark and stormy to the view, 
Though the light our eyes forsaketli, fresh and sweet behold it breaketh 
Into" endless day for you! " 



KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 
(asleep in the daytime.) 

All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth, 

And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair ; 
They have laid a gathered blossom on the bre ist of one v.ho sleepeth 
With a sunbeam on her hair. 

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth, 

And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak; 
Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth 
On the sainted brow and cheek. 

There is silence ! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing, 

In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease, 
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be failing, 
They, like Aaron, '' hold their peace." 



250 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long slow pauses soundeth ; 
Long they hearken — father — mother — love has nothing more to say: 
Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where love aboundeth 
Tolls the heavy bell this day. 

Still in silence to its tolling they count over all her meetness 

To lie near their hearts and soothe tliem in all sorrows and all fears; 
Her short life lies spread before them, but they cannot tell her sweetness, 
Easily as tell her years. 

Only daughter — Ah ! how fondly Thought around that lost name lingers, 

Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep and droop her head, 
She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those imitative fingers, 
Drawing out her airiiless thread. 

In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheered to-morrow, 

But in sleep shall three lair faces heavenly-calm towards him lean — 
Like a threefold cord shall draw hnn through the weariness of sorrow. 
Nearer to the things unseen. 

With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams of expectation. 

And so ends the fairest chapter in the records of their way: 
Therefore — O thou God most holy — God of rest and consolation. 
Be Thou near to them this day! 

Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed of infant brothers, 

Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall bless them on their kneeSj 
And shall think how coldly falleth the white moonlight on the others, 
In their bed beneath the trees. 

Be Thou near, when they, they only, bear those faces in remembrance, 

And the number of their children strangers ask them with a smile ; 
And when other childlike faces touch them by the strong resemblance 
To those turned to them erewhile. 

Be Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course and conflict nerving, 

Let Thy voice say, " Father — mother — lo ! thy treasures live above! 
Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over much with serving 
At the shrine of human love." 

Let them sleep ! In course of ages e'en the Holy House shall crumble, 

And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to its decline, 
And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked in clothing humble. 
Creeping moss shall round them twine. 

Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall glimmer through them. 

And invest them with a beauty we would fain they should not share. 
And the moonlight slanting down them, the white moonlight shall imbue them 
With a sadness dim and fair. 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Then the soft green moss shall wrap you, and the world shall all forget you, 

Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall pass you by ; 
Generations come and vanish : but it shall not grieve nor fret you, 
That they sin, or that they sigh. 

And the world, grown old in sinning, shall deny her first beginning, 

And think scorn of words which whisper how that all must pass away ; 
Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain tradition, 
And a dream, the reckoning day ! 

Till His blast, a blast of terror, shall awake in shame and sadness 

Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth and skies. 
And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout of joy and gladness, 
Call the dead in Christ to rise ! 

Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear from their transgression, 

Father — mother — you shall meet them fairer than they were before. 
And have joy with the Redeemed, joy ear hath not heard -*- heart dreamed. 
Ay for ever — evermore! 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 

JOYING imbedded in the green cham- 
paign 
That gives no shadow to thy silvery 
face, 

Open to all the heavens, and all their 
train. 
The marshalled clouds that cross with 
stately pace, 

No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest. 

Nor waver with the dimpling of thy 
breast. 

O, silent Mere! about whose marges 
spring 
Thick bulrushes to hide the reed- 
bird's nest; 

Where the shy ousel dips her glossy 
wing, [rest : 

And balanced in the water takes her 

While under bending leaves, all gem- 
arrayed. 

Blue dragon-flies sit panting in the 
sTiade : 



Warm, stilly place, the sundew loves 

thee well, 
And the green sward comes creeping 

to thy brink. 
And golden saxifrage and pimpei"nel 
Lean down to thee their perfumed 

heads to drink ; 
And heavy with the weight of bees doth 

bend 
White clover, and beneath thy wave 

descend : 

While the sweet scent of bean-fields, 
floated wide 
On a long eddy of the lightsome air 
Over the level mead to thy lone side, 
Doth lose itself among thy zephyrf 
rare, 
With wafts from hawthorn bowers an i 

new-cut hay. 
And blooming orchards lying far away. 

Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deep' r 
calm 
Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, a- 4d 
then 
There is a sound of bells, a far-o£E 
psalm 
From gray church towers, that swircs 
across the fen ; 



252 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



And the light sigh where grass and 

waters meet, 
Is thy n^eek welcome to the visit sweet. 

Thou hast thy lovers. Though the 

angler's rod 
Dimple thy surface seldom ; though 

the oar 
Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing 

sod, 
Nor send long ripples to thy lonely 

shore ; 
Though few, as in a glass, have cared 

to trace 
The smile of nature moving on thy face ; 

i'hou hast thy lovers truly. 'Mid the 

cold 
Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream 

of thee, 
/ind, keeping thee in mind, their wings 

unfold, 
And shape their course, high soaring, 

till they see 
Down in the world, like molten silver, 

rest 
Their goal, and screaming plunge them 

in thy breast. 

Fair Margaret, who sittest all day 
long 
On the gray stone beneath the syca- 
more, 
.The bowering tree with branches lithe 
and strong, 
The only one to grace the level shore, 
Why dost thou wait? for whom with 

patient cheer 
Gaze yet so wistfiilly adown the Mere? 

Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, 
alas ! 
Long watch ings leave behind them 
little trace ; 

And yet how sweetly must the morn- 
ings pass, 
That bring that dreamy calmness to 
thy face ! 

How quickly must the evenings come 
that find 

Thee still regret to leave the Mere be- 
hind ! 



Thy cheek is resting on thy hand ; thine 

eyes 

Are like twin violets but half unclosed, 

And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies. 

Never more peacefully in love reposed 

A mother's gaze upon her offspring 

dear, 
Than thine upon the long far-stretch- 
ing Mere. 



Sweet innocent ! Thy yellow hair floats 
low 
In rippling undulations on thy breast, 

Then stealing down the parted love- 
locks flow. 
Bathed in a sunbeam on thy knees to 
rest, 

And touch those idle hands that folded 
lie, 

Having from sport and toil a like im- 
munity. 

Through thy life's dream with what a 

touching grace 
Childhood attends thee, nearly woman 

grow n ; 
Her dimples linger yet upon thy face. 

Like dews upon a lily this day blown ; 
Thy sighs are born of peace, unruffled, 

deep ; 
So the babe sighs on mother's breast 

asleep. 

It sighs, and wakes, — but thou! thy 
dream is all, 
And thou wert born for it, and it for 
thee ; 

Morn doth not take thy heart, nor even- 
fall 
Charm out its sorrowful fidelity, 

Nor noon beguile thee from the pas- 
toral shore, 

And thy long watch beneath the syca- 
more. 

No, down the Mere, as far as eye can 
see, 
Where its long reaches fade into the 
sky. 
Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests 
lovingly ; 
But neither thou nor any can descry 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 



253 



Aught but the grassy banks, the rustling 

sedge, 
And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at 

their edge. 

And yet 'tis not with expectation 
hushed 
That thy mute rosy mouth doth pout- 
ing close : 

No fluttering hope to thy young heart 
e'er rushed, ' 
Nor disappointment troubled its re- 
pose ; 

All satisfied with gazing evermore 

Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore. 

The brooding wren flies pertly near thy 

seat,_ 
Thou wilt not move to mark her 

glancing wing; 
The timid sheep browse close before thy 

feet, 
And heedless at thy side do thrushes 

sing. 
So long amongst them thou hast spent 

thy days, 
They know that harmless hand thou 

wilt not raise. 

Thou wilt not lift it up — riot e'en to 
take 
The foxglove bells that flourish in the 
shade, 

And put them in thy bosom ; not to 
make 
A posy of wild hyacinth inlaid 

Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass. 

With freckled orchis and pale sassa- 
fras. 

Gaze on; — take in the voices of the 

Mere, 
The break of shallow water at thy 

feet, 
Its splash among long reeds and grasses 

sere, 
And its weird sobbing, — hollow music 

meet 
For ears like thine ; listen and take thy 

fill. 
And dream on it by night, when ail is 

still. 



Full sixteen years have slowly passed 

away, 
Young Margaret, since thy fond 

mother here 
Came down, a six months' wife, one 

April day. 
To see her husband's boat go down 

the Mere, 
And track its course, till, lost in distance 

blue, 
In mellow light it faded from her view. 

It faded, and she never saw it more ; — 
Nor any human eye ; — oh, grief ! oh, 

woe! 
It faded, — and returned not to the 

shore ; 
But far above it still the waters flow — 
And none beheld it sink, and none could 

tell 
Where coldly slept the form she loved 

so well ! 

But that sad day, unknowing of her 
fate. 
She homeward turn'd her still reluc- 
tant feet ; 

And at her wheel she spun, till dark and 
late. 
The evening fell; — the time when 
they should meet ; — 

Till the stars paled that at deep mid- 
night burned — 

And morning dawned, and he was not 
returned. 

And the bright sun came up, — she 

thought too soon, — 
And shed his ruddy light along the 

Mere; 
And day wore on too quickly, and at 

noon 
She came and wept beside the waters 

clear. 
"How could he be so late?" — and 

then hope fled ; 
And disappointment darkened into 

dread. 

He NEVER came, and she with weepings 
sore 
Peered in the water-flags unceasingly; 



254 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



Through all the undulations of the 

shore, 
Looking for that which most she 

feared to see. 
And then she took home sorrow to her 

heart, 
And brooded over its cold, cruel smart. 

And after, desolate she sat alone 

And mourned, refusing to be com- 
forted, 

On the gray stone, the moss-embroid- 
ered stone, 
With the great sycamore above her 
head ; 

Till after many days a broken oar 

Hard by her seat was drifted to the 
shore. 

It came, — a token of his fate, — the 
whole, 
The sum of her misfortune to reveal ; 
As if sent up in pity to her soul, 

The tidings of her widowhood to 
seal; 
And put away the pining hope forlorn, 
That made her grief more bitter to be 
borne. 

And she was patient ; through the weary 
day 
She toiled ; though none was there 
her work to bless, 

And did not wear the sullen months 
away, 
Nor call on death to end her wretch- 
edness, 

But lest the grief should overflow her 
breast. 

She toiled as heretofore, and would not 
rest. 

But, her work done, what time the 

evening star 
Rose over the cool water, then she 

came 
To the gray stone, and saw its light from 

far 
Drop down the misty Mere white 

lengths of flame. 
And wondered whether there might be 

the place 
Where the soft ripple wandered o'er 

HIS face. 



Unfortunate ! In solitude forlorn 
She dwelt, and thought upon her hus- 
band's grave. 

Till when the days grew short a child 
was born 
To the dead father underneath the 
wave ; 

And it brought back a remnant of de- 
light, 

A little sunshine to its mother's sight ; 

A little wonder to her heart grown 

numb, 
And a sweet yearning pitiful and 

keen : 
She took it as from that poor father 

come, 
Her and the misery to stand between ; 
Her little maiden babe, who day bj; 

day 
Sucked at her breast and charmed hei 

woes away. 

But years flew on ; the child was still 
the same. 
Nor human language she had learned 
to speak ; 

Her lips were mute, and seasons went 
and came, 
And brought fresh beauty to her ten- 
der cheek ; 

And all the day upon the sunny shore 

She sat and mused beneath the syca- 
more. 

Strange sympathy ! she watched and 

wearied not, 
Haply unconscious what it was sh* 

sought ; 
Her mother's tale she easily forgot, 
And if she listened no warm tears it 

brought ; 
Thougli surely in the yearnings of het 

heart 
The unknown voyager must have had 

his part. 

Unknown to her ; like all she saw un' 

known. 
All sights were fresh as when they 

first began. 
All sounds were new; each murmiu? 

and each tone 



MARGARET BV THE MERE SIDE. 



255 



And cause and consequence she could 

not scan, 
Forgot that night brought darkness in 

its train, 
Nor reasoned that the day would come 

again. 

There is a happiness in past regret ; 
And echoes of the harshest sound 
are sweet- 

The mother's soul was struck with 
grief, and yet, 
Repeated in her child, 'twas not un- 
meet 

That eolio-like the grief a tone should 
take 

Painless, but ever pensive for her sake ; 

For her dear sake, whose patient soul 
was linked 
By ties so many to the babe unborn ; 

Whose hope, by slow degrees become 
extinct. 
For evermore had left her child for- 
lorn, 

Yet left no consciousness of want or 
woe, 

Nor wonder vague that these things 
should be so. 

Truly her joys were limited and few. 
But they sufficed a life to satisfy, 

That neither fret nor dim foreboding 
knew. 
But breathed the air in a great har- 
mony 

With its own place and part, and was at 
one 

With all it knew of earth and moon and 
sun. 

For all of them were worked into the 

dream, 
The husky sighs of wheat -fields in it 

wrought ; 
All the land-miles belonged to it ; the 

stream 
That fed the Mere ran through it like 

a thought. 
It was a ]iassion of peace, and loved to 

wait 
'Neath boughs with fair green light 

illuminate ; 



To wait with her alone ; always alone: 
For any that drew near she heeded 
not, 

Wanting them little as the lily grown 
Apart from others in a shady plot, 

Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree, 

In her still glen to bear her company. 

Always alone : and yet, there was a 

child 
Who loved this child, and, from his 

turret towers. 
Across the lea would roam to where, 

inisled 
And fenced in rapturous silence, went 

her hours. 
And, with slow footsteps drawn anear 

the place 
Where mute she sat, would ponder on 

her face, 

And wonder at her with a childish awe, 
And come again to look, and yet 

again, 
Till the sweet rippling of the Mere 

would draw 
His longing to itself ; while in her 

train 
The water-hen, come forth, would bring 

her brood 
From slumbering in the rushy solitude ; 

Or to their young would curlews call 

and clang 
Their homeless young that down the 

furrows creep ; 
Or the wind-hover in the blue would 

hang. 
Still as a rock set in the watery deep. 
Then from her presence he would break 

away, 
Unmarked, ungreeted yet, from day to 

day. 

But older grown, the Mere he haunted 
yet. 
And a strange joy from its sweet wjld'^ 
nes- caught ; 
Whilst careless" sat alone maid Marga- 
ret, 
And "shut the gates" of silence on 
her thought. 



2S6 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



All through spring mornings gemmed 

witli melted rime, 
All through hay-harvest and through 

gleaning tune. 

O pleasure for itself that boyhood 
makes, 
O happiness to roam the sighing 
shor-i, 

Plough up with elfin craft the water- 
flakes, 
And track the nested rail with cau- 
tious oar ; 

Then floating lie and look with wonder 
new 

Straight up in the great dome of light 
and blue. 



O pleasure ! yet they took him from the 
wold, 
The reedy Mere, and all his pastime 
there, 

The place where he was born, and 
would grow old 
If God his life so many years should 
spare ; 

From the loved haunts of childhood and 
the plain 

And pasture-lands of his own broad do- 
main. 



And he came down when wheat was in 
the sheaf, 
And with her fruit the apple-branch 
bent low, 

While yet in August glory hung the 
leaf. 
And flowerless aftermath began to 
grow ; 

He came from his gray turrets to the 
shore, 

And sought the maid beneath the syca- 
more. 



He sought her, not because her tender 
eyes 
Would brighten at his coming, for he 
knew 
Full seldom any thought of him would 
rise 
In her fair breast when he had passed 
from view j 



But for his own love's sake, that unbe- 

guiled , 

Drew him in spirit to the silent child. 



For boyhood in its better hour is prone 
To reverence what it hath not under- 
stood ; 

And he had thought some heavenly 
meaning shone 
From her clear eyes, that made their 
watchings good ; 

While a great peacefulness of shade 
was shed 

Like oil of consecration on her head. 



A fishing wallet from his shoulder 

slung, 
With bounding foot he reached the 

mossy place, 
A little moment gently o'er her hung, 
Put back her hair and looked upon 

her face. 
Then fain from that deep dream to wake 

her yet, 
He "Margaret!" low murmured, 

" Margaret ! 

" Look at me once before I leave the 

land. 
For I am going, — going, Margaret." 
And then she sighed, and, lifting up 

her hand. 
Laid it along his young fresh cheek, 

and set 
Upon his face those blue twin-deeps, 

her eyes. 
And moved it back from her in troubled 

wise, 

Because he came between her and her 
fate. 
The Mere. She sighed again as one 
oppressed ; 

The waters, shining clear, with deli- 
cate 
Reflections wavered on her blameless 
breast ; 

And through the branches dropt, like 
flickerings fair. 

And played upon her hands and on her 
hair. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



257 



And he, withdrawn a little space to 

see, 
Murmured in tender ruth that was 

not pain, 
" Farewell, I go ; but sometimes think 

of me, 
Maid Margaret ; " and there came by 

again 
A whispering in the reed-beds and the 

sway 
Of waters : then he turned and went 

his way. 

And wilt thou think on him now he is 

gone ? 
No ; thou wilt gaze : though thy 

young eyes grow dim, 
And thy soft cheek become all pale and 

wan, 
Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no 

thought on him ; 
There is no sweetness in his laugh for 

thee — 
No beauty in his fresh heart's gayety. 

But wherefore linger in deserted 

haunts ? 
Why of the past, as if yet present, 

sing?_ _ 
The yellow iris on the rriargin flaunts, 
With hyacinth the banks are blue in 

spring, 
And under dappled clouds the lark 

afloat 
Pours all the April-tide from her sweet 

throat. 

But Margaret — ah! thou art there no 
more, 
And thick dank moss creeps over thy 
gray stone ; 

Thy path is lost that skirted the low 
shore, 
With willow-grass and speedwell over- 
grown ; 

Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine 
ear 

Drinks in no more the music of the 
Mere. 

The boy shall come — shall come again 

in spring, 
[ Well pleased that pastoral solitude 

to share, 



And some kind offering in his hand will 

bring 
To cast into thy lap, O maid most 

fair — 
Some clasping gem about thy neck to 

rest. 
Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless 

breast. 

And he shall wonder why thou art not 
here 
The solitude with " smiles to enter- 
tain," 

And gaze along th6 reaches of the 
Mere ; 
But he shall never see thy face 
again — 

Shall never see upon the reedy shore 

Maid Margaret beneath her sycamore. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 

[" Concerning this man (Robert Del- 
acour), little further is known than that 
he served in the king's army, and was 
wounded in the battle of Marston Moor, 
being then about twenty-seven years of 
age. After the battle of Nazeby, find- 
ing himself a marked man, he quitted 
the country, taking with him the child 
whom he had adopted ; and he made 
many voyages between tlie different 
ports of the Mediterranean and Le- 
vant."] 

Resting within his tent at turn of day, 

A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset : 

He started up — it did not flee away — 

'Twas no part of his dream, but still 

did fret 

And pine into his heart, " Ah me ! ah 

me! " 
Broken with heaving^sobs right mourn- 
fully. 

Then he arose, and, troubled at this 
thing. 
All wearily toward the voice he went 
Over the down-trod bracken and the 



253 



THE TIVO MARGARETS. 



Until it brought him to a soldier's 

tent, 
Where, with the tears upon her face, 

he found 
A little maiden weeping on the ground ; 

And backward in the tent an aged 

crone 
Upbraided her full harshly more and 

more, 
But sunk her chiding to an undertone 
When she beheld him standing at 

the door. 
And calmed her voice, and dropped 

her lifted hand, 
And answered him with accent soft and 

bland. 

No, the young child was none of hers, 
she said. 
But she had found her where the ash 
lay white 

About a smouldering tent ; her infant 
head 
All shelterless, she through the dewy 
night 

Had slumbered on the field, — un- 
gentle fate 

For a lone child so soft and delicate. 

"And I," quoth she, ''have tended 

her with care, 
And thought to be rewarded of her 

kin. 
For by her rich attire and features fair 
I know her birth is gentle: yet 

within 
The tent unclaimed she doth but pine 

and weep, 
A burden I would fain no longer keep." 

Still while she spoke the little creature 

wept, 
Till painful pity touched him for the 

flow 
Of all those tears, and to his heart 

there crept 
A yearning as of fatherhood, and lo ! 
Reaching his arms to her, "My sweet," 

quoth he, 
"Dear little madam, wilt thou come 

with me?" 



Then she left ofJher crying, and a look 
Of wistful wonder stole into her eyes. 
The sullen frown her dimpled tace for- 
sook. 
She let him take her, and forgot her 
sighs. 
Contented in his alien arms to rest, 
And lay her baby head upon his breast. 

Ah, sure a stranger trust was never 

sought 
By any soldier on a battle-plain. 
He brought her to his tent, and soothed 

his voice. 
Rough with command ; and asked, 

but all in vain. 
Her story, while her prattling tongue 

rang sweet. 
She playing, as one at homcj- about his 

feet. 

Of race, of country, or of parentage, 
Her lisping accents nothing could 
unfold ; — 

No questioning could win to read the 
page 
Of her short life ; — she left her tale 
untold, 

And home and kin thus early to for- 
get. 

She only knew, — her name was — 
Margaret. 

Then in the dusk upon his arm it 

chanced 
That night that suddenly she fell 

asleep ; 
And he looked down on her like one 

entranced. 
And listened to her breathing still 

and deep. 
As if a little child, when daylight 

closed, 
With half-shut lids had ne'er before 

reposed. 

Softly he laid her down from off his 
arm, 
With earnest care and new-born ten^' 
derness: 
Her infancy, a wonder-working charm, 
Laid hold upon his love ; he stayed 
to bless 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



259 



The small sweet head, then went he 

forth that night 
And sou2;ht a nurse to tend this new 

delisht. 



And day by day his heart she wrought 

upon, 
And won her way into its inmost 

fold — 
A heart which, but for lack of that 

whereon" 
To fix itself, would never have been 

cold; 
And, opening wide, now let her come to 

dwell 
Within its strong unguarded citadel. 

She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden 
spi'ings 
Of his past thoughts, and set their 
current free 

To talk with him of half-forgotten 
things — 
The pureness and the peace of in- 
fancy, 

" Thou also, thou," to sigh, " wert un- 
defiled 

(O God, the change !) once, as this little 
child." 



The baby-mistress of a soldier's heart, 
She had but friendlessness to stand 

her friend, 
And her own orphanhood to plead her 

part, 
When he, a wayfarer, did pause, and 

bend, 
And bear with him the starry blossom 

sweet 
Out of its jeopardy from trampling feet. 

A gleam of light upon a rainy day, 
A new-tied knot that must be severed 
soon. 
At sunrise once before his tent at 
play, 
And hurried from the battle-field at 
noon, 
While face to face In hostile ranks they 

stood, 
Who should have dwelt in peace and 
broth erlft)od. 



But ere the fight, when higher rose the 

sun, 
And yet were distant far the rebel 
bands. 
She heard at intervals a booming gun, 
And she was pleased, and laughing 
clapped her hands ; 
Till he came in with troubled look and 

tone, 
Who chose her desolate to be his own. 

And he said, " Little madam, now fare- 
well, 
For there will be a battle fought ere 
night. 
God be thy shield, for He alone can tell 
Which way may fall the fortune of 
the fight. 
To fitter hands the care of thee pertain, 
My dear, if we two never meet again." 

Then he gave money shortly to her 

nurse. 
And charged her straitly to depart in 

haste. 
And leave the j^lain, whereon the deadly 

curse 
Of war should light with ruin, death, 

and waste, 
And all the ills that must its presence 

blight, 
E'en if proud victory should bless the 

right. 

" But if the rebel cause should prosper, 

then 
It were not good among the hills to 

wend ; 
But journey through to Boston in the 

fen. 
And wait for peace, if peace our God 

shall send ; 
And if my life is spared, I will essay," 
Quoth he, " to join you there as best I 

may." 

So then he kissed the child, and went 
his way ; 
But many troubles rolled above his 
head ; 
The sun arose on many an evil day, 
And cruel deeds were done, and tears 
were shed : 



2 6o 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



And hope was lost, and loyal hearts 

were fain 
In dust to hide, — ere they two met 

again. 

So passed the little child from thought, 
from view — 
(The snowdrop blossoms, and then is 
not there, 

Forgotten till men welcome it anew), 
He found her in his heavy days of 
care, 

And with her dimples was again be- 
guiled, 

As on her nurse's knee she sat and 
smiled. 

And he became a voyager by sea, 
And took the child to share his wan- 
dering state ; 

Since from his native land compelled to 
flee, 
And hopeless to avert her monarch's 
fate; 

For all was lost that might have made 
him pause, 

And, past a soldier's help, the royal 
cause. 

And thus rolled on long days, long 
months and years. 
And Margaret within the Xebec 
sailed ; 

The lulling wind made music In her 
ears, 
And nothing to her hfe's complete- 
ness failed. 

Her pastime 'twas to see the dolphins 
spring, 

And wonderful live rainbows glimmer- 
ing. 

The gay sea-plants familiar were to her. 

As daisies to the children of the land ; 

Red wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner 

Raised from its bed to glisten in her 

hand ; 

The vessel and the sea were her life's 

stage — 
Her house, her garden, and her hermit- 



Also she had a cabin of her own, 
For beauty like an elfin palace 

bright, 
With Venice glass adorned and crystal 

stone. 
That trembled with a- many-colored 

light; 
And there with two caged ringdoves 

she did play. 
And feed them carefully from day to 

day. 



Her bed with silken curtains was en- 
closed. 
White as the snowy rose of Guelder- 
land ; 

On Turkish pillows her young head 
reposed, 
And love had gathered with a careful 
hand 

Fair playthings to the little maiden's 
side. 

From distant ports, and cities parted 
wide. 



She had two myrtle-plants that she did 
tend, 
And think all trees were like to them 
that grew : 

For things on land she did confuse and 
blend, 
And chiefly from the deck the land 
she knew, 

And in her heart she pitied more and 
more 

The steadfast dwellers on the change- 
less shore. 



Green fields and inland meadows faded 

out 
Of mind, or with sea images were 

linked ; 
And yet she had her childish thoughts 

about 
The country she had left — though 

Indistinct 
And faint as mist the mountain-head 

that shrouds, 
Or dim through distance as Magellan's 

clouds. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



s6i 



And when to frame a forest scene she 
tried, 
The ever-present sea would yet in- 
trude, 

And all her towns were by the water's 
side, 
It murmured in all moorland soli- 
tude, 

Where rocks and the ribbed sand would 
intervene. 

And waves would edge her fancied vil- 
lage green ; 



Because her heart was like an ocean 
shell, 
That holds (men say) a message from 
the deep ; 

And yet the land was strong, she knew 
its spell, 
And harbor lights could draw her in 
her sleep ; 

And minster chimes from pierced tow- 
ers that swim, 

Were the land-angels making God a 
hymn. 



So she grew on, the idol of one heart. 
And the delight of many — and her 

face. 
Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex 

apart, 
Was touched with a most deep and 

tender grace — 
A look that never aught but nature 

gave. 
Artless, yet thoughtful ; innocent, yet 

grave. 



Strange her adornings were, and 

strangely blent • 
A golden net confined her nut-brown 

hair ; 
Quaint were the robes that divers lands 

had lent. 
And quaint her aged nurse's skill and 

care ; 
Yet did they well on the sea-maiden 

meet. 
Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled 

feet. 



The sailor folk were glad because of 
her. 
And deemed good fortune followed 
in her wake ; 

She was their guardian saint, they did 
aver — 
Prosperous winds were sent them for 
her sake ; 

And strange rough vows, strange pray- 
ers, they nightly made, 

While, storm or calm, she slept, in 
nought afraid. 



Clear were her eyes, that daughter of 

the sea. 
Sweet, when uplifted to her aged 

nurse. 
She sat, and communed what the world 

could be ; 
And rambling stories caused her to 

rehearse 
How Yule was kept, how maidens 

tossed the haj^. 
And how bells rang upon a wedding 

day. 

But they grew brighter when the even- 
ing-star 
First trembled over the still glowing 
wave, 
That bathed in ruddy light, mast, sail, 
.^nd spar ; 
For then, reclined in rest that twi- 
light gave. 
With him who served for father, friend, 

and guide. 
She sat upon the deck'at eventide. 



Then turned towards the west, that on 
her hair 
And her young cheek shed down its 
tender glow. 

He taught her many things with ear- 
nest care 
That he thought fitting a young 
maid should know. 

Told of the good deeds of the worthy 
dead. 

And prayers devout, by faithful martyrf 
said. 



262 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



And many psalms he caused her to 

repeat 
And sing them, at his knees reclined 

the while, 
And spoke with her of all things good 

and meet, 
And told the story of her native 

isle, 
Till at the end he made her tears to 

flow. 
Rehearsing of his roval master's woe. 



And of the stars he taught her, and 
their names, 
And how the chartless mariner they 
guide ; 

Of quivering light that in the zenith 
flames. 
Of monsters in the deep sea caves 
that hide ; 

Then changed the theme to fairy rec- 
ords wild, 

Enchanted moor, elf dame, or change- 
ling child. 



To her the Eastern lands their strange- 
ness spread, 
The dark-faced Arab in his long bkie 
gown, 

The camel thrusting down a snake-like 
head 
To browse on thorns outside a walled 
white town, 

Where palmy clusters rank by rank up- 
right 

Float as in quivering lakes of ribbed 
light. 



And when the ship sat like a broad- 
winged bird 
Becalmed, lo, lions answered in the 
night 

Their fellows, all the hollow dark was 
stirred 
To eclio on that tremulous thunder's 
flight. 

Dying in weird faint moans ; — till, look ! 
the sun 

And night, and all the things of night, 
were done. 



And they, toward the waste as momijig 

brake, 
Turned, where, inisled in his green 

watered land. 
The Lybian Zeus lay couched of old, 

and spake. 
Hemmed in with leagues of furrow- 

facid sand — 
Then saw the moon (like Joseph's 

golden cup 
Come bacii) behind some ruined roof 

swim up. 



But blooming childhood will not always 
last. 
And storms will rise e'en on the tide- 
less sea ; 

His guardian love took fright, she grew 
so fast. 
And he began to think how sad' twould 
be 

If he should die, and pirate hordes 
should get 

By swoid or shipwreck his fair Mar- 
gai et. 

It was a sudden thought ; but he gave 

way. 
For it assailed him with unwonted 

force ; 
And, with no more than one short 

week's delay, 
For English shores he shaped the 

vessel's course ; 
And ten years absent saw her landed 

now. 
With thirteen summers on her maiden 

brow. 

And so he journeyed with her, far in- 
land, 
Down quiet lanes, by hedges gemmed 
with dew. 

Where wonders met her eye on every 
hand. 
And all was beautiful and strange and 
new — 

All, from the forest trees in stately 
ranks. 

To yellow cowslips trembling on th« 
banks. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



263 



All new — the long-drawn slope of even- 
ing shades 
The sweet solemnities of waxing 
light, 

The white-haired boys, the blushing 
rustic maids. 
The ruddy gleam through cottage 
casements bright, 

The green of pastures, bloom of garden 
nooks. 

And endless bubbling of the water- 
brooks. 

So far he took them on through this 
green land. 
The maiden and her nurse, till jour- 
neying 

They saw at last a peaceful city stand 
On a steep mount, and heard its clear 
bells ring. 

"High were the towers and rich with 
ancient state, 

In Its old wall enclosed and massive 
gate. 

There dwelt a worthy matron whom he 
knew, 
To whom in time of war he gave 
good aid, 

Shielding her household from the plun- 
dering crew 
When neither law could bind nor 
worth persuade : 

And to her house he brought his care 
and pride. 

Aweary with the way and sleepy-eyed. 

And he, the man whom she was fain to 
serve. 
Delayed not shortly his request to 
make, 

Which was, if aught of her he did de- 
sei-ve, 
To take the maid, and rear her for 
his sake. 

To guard her youth, and let her breed- 
ing be 

In womanly reserve and modesty. 

And that same night into the house he 
brought 
The costly fruits of all his voyages — 



Rich Indian gems of wandering crafts- 
men wrought, 
Long ropes of pearls from Persian 
palaces, 

With ingots pure and coins of Venice 
mould. 

And silver bars and bags of Spanish 
gold; 

And costly merchandise of far-off 
lands. 
And golden stuffs and shawls of 
Eastern dye. 

He gave them over to the matron's 
hands. 
With jewelled gauds, and toys of 
ivory. 

To be her dower on whom his love was 
set, — 

His dearest child, fair Madam Marga- 
ret. 

Then he entreated, that if he should 

die, 
She would not cease her guardian 

mission mild. 
Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh, 
Beside the pillow of the sleeping 

child, 
Severed one wandering lock of wavy 

hair, 
Took horse that night, and left her 



And it was long before he came 

again — 
So long that Margaret was woman 

grown ; 
And oft she wished for his return in 

vain, 
Calling him softly in an undertone ; 
Repeating words that he had said the 

while. 
And striving to recall his look and 

smile. 

If she had known — oh, if she could 
have known — 
The toils, the hardships of those ab- 
sent years — 

How bitter thraldom forced the unwill- 
ing groan — 



264 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



How slavery wrung out subduing 

tears, 
Not calmly had she passed her hours 

away, 
Chiding half pettishly the long delay. 

But she was spared. She knew no 
sense of harm, 
While the red flames ascended from 
the deck ; 

Saw not the pirate band the crew dis- 
arm, 
Mourned not the floating spars, the 
smoking wreck. 

She did not dream, and there was none 
to tell 

That fetters bound the hands she loved 
so well. 

Sweet Margaret — withdrawn from hu- 
man view. 
She spent long hours beneath the 
cedar shade. 

The stately trees that in the garden 
grew. 
And, overtwined, a towering shelter 
made ; 

She mused among the flowers, and 
birds, and bees, 

In winding walks, and bowering cano- 
pies; 

Or wandered slowly through the an- 
cient rooms. 
Where oriel windows shed their rain- 
bow gleams ; 

And tapestried hangings, wrought in 
Flemish looms. 
Displayed the story of King Pha- 
raoh's dreams ; 

And, come at noon because the well 
was deep. 

Beautiful Rachel leading down her 
sheep. 

At last she reached the bloom of 
womanhood. 
After five summers spent in growing 
fair ; 
Her face betokened all things dear and 
good. 
The light of somewhat yet to come 
was there 



Asleep, and waiting for the opening 

day, 
When childish thoughts, hke flowers, 

would drift away. 

O! we are far too happy while they 
last; 
We have our good things first, and 
they cost naught ; 

Then the new splendor comes unfath- 
omed, vast, 
A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous 
thought, 

And will not wait, and cannot be pos- 
sessed. 

Though infinite yearnings fold it to thi 
breast. 

And time, that seemed so long, is 

fleeting by. 
And life is more than life ; love m.or< 

than love ; 
We have not found the whole — and 

we must die — 
And still the unclasped glory float'; 

above. 
The inmost and the utmost faint fron 

sight, 
For ever secret in their veil of light. 

Be not too hasty in your flow, yo' 

rhymes, 
For Margaret is in her garden bowe/| 
Delay to ring, you soft cathedral 

chimes, 
And tell not out too soon the nooiv 

tide hour: 
For one draws nearer to j'our ancieitf 

town , 
On the green mount down settled lil i 

a crown. 

He jourreyed on, and, as he neared tf i 

gate. 
He met with one to whom he nam^d 

the maid, 
Inquiring of her welfare, and her stalfc, 
And of the matron in whose hoi (ts 

she stayed. 
"The maiden dwelt there yet," \i\* 

townsman said ; 
"But, for the ancient lady, — she waf 

dead." 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



265 



He further said, she was but little 

known, 
Although reputed to be very fair, 
And little seen (so much she dwelt 

alone) 
But with her nurse at stated morning 

prayer ; 
So seldom passed her sheltering garden 

wall, 
Or left the gate at quiet evening fall. 

Flow softly, rhymes — his hand is on 
the door ; 
Ring out, ye noonday bells, his wel- 
coming — ■* 

" He went out rich, but he returneth 
poor;" 
And strong — now something bowed 
with suffering; 

Alfd on his brow are traced long fur- 
rowed lines. 

Earned in the fight with pirate Alger- 
ines. 

Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his 

call; 
Lifts up her withered hand in dull 

surprise, 
And, tottering, leads him through the 

pillared hall ; 
"What! come at last to bless my 

lady's eyes ! 
Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a 

likesome maid — 
Go, seek her where she sitteth in the 

shade." 

The noonday chime had ceased — she 
did not know 
Who watched her, while her ring- 
doves fluttered near: 

While, under the green boughs, in ac- 
cents low 
She sang unto herself. She did not 
hear 

His footstep till she turned, then rose 
to meet 

Her guest with guileless blush and 
wonder sweet. 

But soon she knew him, came with 
quickened pace, 
And put her gentle hands about his 
neck ; 



And leaned her fair cheek to his sun- 
burned face, 
As long ago upon the vessel's deck : 
As long ago she did in twilight deep, 
When heaving waters lulled her infant 
sleep. 

So then he kissed her, as men kiss their 
own. 
And, proudly parting her unbraided 
hair. 

He said: " I did not think to see thee 
grown 
So fair a woman," — but a touch of 
care 

The deep-toned voice through its ca- 
ressing kept, 

And, hearing it, she turned away and 
wept. 

Wept, — for an impress on the face she 
viewed — 
The stamp of feelings she remem- 
bered not ; 

His voice was calmer now, but more 
subdued. 
Not like the voice long loved and un- 
forgot ! 

She felt strange sorrow and delightful 
pain — 

Grief for the change, joy that he came 
again. 



O pleasant days, that followed his re- 
turn, 
That made his captive years pass out 
of mind ; 

If life had yet new pains for him to 
learn, 
Not in the maid's clear eyes he saw 
it shrined ; 

And three full weeks he stayed with 
her, content 

To find her beautiful and innocent. 

It was all one in his contented sight • 
As though she were a child, till sud- 
denly. 
Waked of the chimes in the dead time 
of the night, 
He fell to thinking how the ur- 
gency 



266 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



Of Fate had dealt with him, and could 

but sigh 
For those best things wherein she 

passed him by. 

Down the long river of life how, cast 

adrift. 
She urged him on, still on, to sink or 

swim; 
And all at once, as if a veil did lift. 
In the dead time of the night, and 

bare to him 
The want in his deep soul, he looked, 

was dumb, 
And knew himself, and knew his time 

was come. 

In the dead time of the night his soul 
did sound 
The dark sea of a trouble unforeseen, 

For that one sweet that to his life was 
bound 
Had turned into a want — a misery 
keen: 

Was born, was grown, and wounded 
sorely cried 

All 'twixt the midnight and the morn- 
ing tide. 

He was a brave man, and he took this 

thing 
And cast it from him with a man's 

strong hand ; 
And that next morn, with no sweet 

altering 
Of mien, beside the maid he took his 

stand, 
And copied his past self till ebbing day 
Paled its deep western blush, and died 

away. 

And then he told her that he must de- 
part 
Upon the morrow, with the earliest 
. light ; 
And it displeased and pained her at the 
heart, 
And she went out to hide her from 
his sight 
Aneath the cedar trees, where dusk was 

deep, 
And be apart from him awhile to weep 



And to lament, till, suddenly aware 
Of steps, she started up as fain tc 

flee, 
And met him in the moonlight pacing 

there. 
Who questioned with her why her 

tears might be, 
Till she did answer him, all red for 

shame, 
" Kind sir, I weep — the wanting of a 

name." 



" A name ! " quoth he, and sighed. " I 
never knew 
Thy father's name ; but many a stal- 
wart youth 

Would give thee his, dear child, and his 
love too, 
And count himself a happy man for- 
sooth. 

Is there none here who thy kind thought 
hath won?" 

But she did falter, and made answer, 
" None." 



Then, as in father-like and kindly 

mood, 
He said, " Dear daughter, it would 

please me well 
To see thee wed ; for know it is not 

good_ 
That a fair woman thus alone should 

dwell." 
She said, " I am content it should be 

so, 
If when you journey I may with you 

go." 



This when he heard, he thought, right 

sick at heart, 
Must I withstand myself, and also 

thee? 
Thou, also thou! must nobly do thy 

part; 
That honor leads thee on which holds 

back me. 
No, thou sweet woman; by love's great 

increase, 
I will reject thee for thy truer peace. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



26; 



Then said he, ** Lady ! — look upon my 
face ; 
Consider well this scar upon my 
brow ; 
I have had all misfortune but disgrace ; 
I do not look for marriage blessings 
now. 
Be not thy gratitude deceived. I know 
Thou think' St it is thy duty — I will go ! 

"I read thy meaning, and I go from 
hence, 
Skilled in the reason ; though my 
heart be rude, 

I will not wrong thy gentle innocence, 
Nor take advantage of thy gratitude, 

But think, while yet the light these eyes 
shall bless. 

The more for thee — of woman's noble- 
ness." 

Faultless and fair, all in the moony 

light. 
As one ashamed, she looked upon 

the ground. 
And her white raiment glistened in his 

sight. 
And, hark ! the vesper chimes began 

to sound, 
Then lower yet she drooped her young, 

pure cheek, 
And still was she ashamed, and could 

not speak. 

A swarm of bells from that old tower 

o'erhead, 
They sent their message sifting 

through the boughs 
Of cedars ; when they ceased his lady 

said, 
" Pray you forgive me," and her 

lovely brows 
She lifted, standing in her moonlit 

place. 
And one short moment looked him in 

the face. 

Then straight he cried, '• O sweetheart, 

think all one 
As no word yet were said between us 

twain, 
And know thou that in this I yield to 

none — 



I love thee, sweetheart, love thee ! " 

so full fain. 
While she did leave to silence all hef 

part. 
He took the gleaming whiteness to his 

heart — 



The white-robed maiden with the warm 
white throat, 
The sweet white brow, and locks of 
umber flow, 
Whose murmuring voice was soft as 
rock -dove's note. 
Entreating him, and saying, " Do not 
. go! " 
" I will not, sweetheart ; nay, not now," 

quoth he, 
" By faith and troth, I think thou art 
for me ! " 



And so she won a name that eventide, 
Which he gave gladly, but would 

ne'er bespeak, 
And she became the rough s^a-captain's 

bride, 
Matching her dimples to his sunburnt 

cheek ; 
And chasing from his voice the touch of 

care, 
That made her weep when first she 

heard it there. 



One year there was, fulfilled of happi- 
ness, 
But O! it went so fast, too fast 
away. 

Then came that trouble which full oft 
doth bless — 
It was the evening of a sultry day. 

There was no wind the thread-hung 
flowers to stir. 

Or float abroad the filmy gossamer. 

Toward the trees his steps the marine! 
bent, 
Pacing the grassy walks with restless 
feet: 
And he recalled, and pondered as he 
went, 
All her most duteous love and con- 
verse sweet, 



268 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



Till summer darkness settled deep and 

dim, 
And dew from bending leaves dropt 

down on him. 

The flowers sent forth their nightly 
odors faint — 
Thick leaves shut out the starlight 
overh ead ; 

While he told over, as by strong con- 
straint 
Drawn on, her childish life on ship- 
board led. 

And beauteous youth, since first low 
kneeling there. 

With folded hands she lisped her even- 
ing prayer. 

Then he remembered how, beneath the 

shade, 
She wooed him to her with her lovely 

words, 
While flowers were closing, leaves in 

moonlight played, 
And in dark nooks withdrew the silent 

birds. 
So pondered he that night in twilight 

dim. 
While dew from bending leaves dropt 

down on him. 

The flowers sent forth their nightly 
odors faint — 
When, in the darkness waiting, he 
saw one 

To whom he said — "How faretli my 
sweet saint ? " 
Who answered — "She hath borne 
to you a son ; " 

Then, turning, left him, — and the 
father said, 

** God rain down blessings on his wel- 
come head! " 

But, Margaret ! — sJie never saw the 
child. 
Nor heard about her bed love's 
mournful wails ; 
But to the last, with ocean dreams be- 
guiled, 
Murmured of troubled seas and 
swelling sails — 



Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen, 
And distant hills in sight, all calm and 
green. . . . 

Woe and alas ! — the times of sorrow 

come. 
And make us doubt if we were ever 

glad! 
So utterly that inner voice is dumb. 
Whose music through our happy days 

we had ! 
So, at the touch of grief, without our 

will. 
The sweet voice drops from us, and all 

is still. 

Woe and alas ! for the sea-captain's 

wife — 
That Margaret who in the Xebec 

played — 
She spent upon his knee her baby 

life ; 
Her slumbering head upon his breast 

she laid. 
How shall he learn alone his years to 

pass ? 
How in the empty house? — woe and 

alas ! 

She died, and in the aisle, the minster- 
aisle. 
They made her grave ; and there, 
with fond intent. 

Her husband raised, his sorrow to be- 
guile, 
A very fair and stately monument : 

Her tomb (the careless vergers show it 
yet)) 

The mariner's wife, his love, his Mar- 
garet. 

A woman's figure, with the eyelids 
closed. 
The quiet head declined in slumber 
sweet ; 

Upon an anchor one fair hand re- 
posed, 
And a long ensign folded at her feet. 

And carved upon the bordering of her 
vest 

The motto of her house — " |^e gtfaftfj 
rest." 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



269 



There is an ancient window richly 
fraught 
And fretted with all hues most rich, 
most bright, 

And in its upper tracery enwrought 
An olive-branch and dove wide- 
winged and white, 

An emblem meet for her, the tender 
dove. 

Her heavenly peace, her duteous earthly 
love. 



Amid heraldic shields and banners 

set. 
In twisted knots and wildly-tangled 

bands, 
Crimson and green, and gold and violet, 
Fall softly on the snowy sculptured 

hands ; 
And, when the sunshine comes, full 

sweetly rest 
The dove and olive-branch upon her 

breast 



NOTES 



"The Dreams that Came True." 

Page 97. 
This story I first wrote in prose, and it was published some years ago. 

" A Story of Doom." 
Page 136. 

The name of the patriarch' s wife is intended to be pronounced Nigh-Ioi-ya. 

Of the three sons of Noah — Shem, Ham, and Japhet — I have called Japhet 
the youngest (because he is always named last), and have supposed that, in the 
genealogies where he is called " Japhet the elder," he may have received the 
epithet because by that time there were younger Japhets. 



Page 168. 

The quivering butterflies in companies, 
That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, 
Like living crocus beds. 



This beautiful comparison is taken from "The Naturalist on the River Ama- 
zons." " Vast numbers of orange-colored butterflies congregated on the moist 
sands. They assembled in densely-packed masse.s, sometimes two or three 
yards in circumference, their wings all held in an upright position, so that the 
sands looked as though variegated with beds of crocusesP 



272 NOTES. 

"Gladys and her Island." 

Page 189. 

The woman is Imagination ; she is brooding over what she brought forth. 
The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of History. 
The girl is Fancy. 

" WiNSTANLEY." 

Page 210. 
This ballad was intended to be one of a set, and was read to the children in 
the National Schools at Sherborne, Dorsetshire, in order to discover whether, 
if the actions of a hero were simply and plainly narrated, English children would 
like to learn the verses recording them by heart, as their forefathers did. 



Jean Inselain'a OTrftings. 





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